UN  VERS  TY  OF  CALIFORNI, 


•az* 

lEGi 

II 


3  1822  02666  7527 


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(    LIBRARY    1 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822  02666  7527 


SONYA   KOVALEVSKY 


SONYA    KOVALEVSKY 


TRANSLATED      FROM      THE 
RUSSIAN  BY  ISABEL  F.  HAPGOOD 


WITH  A  BIOGRAPHY  BY  ANNA 
CARLOTTA  LEFFLER,  DUCHESS  OF  CAJANELLO 

TRANSLATED       FROM      THE 
SWEDISH  BYA.M.CLIVE  BAYLEY 


AND    A    BIOGRAPHICAL 
NOTE  BY  LILY  WOLFFSOHN 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO 

1895 


Copyright,  1895,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Sonya  Koval&vsky  unfortunately  dropped  the 
thread  of  her  delightful  Recollections  at  a  point  just 
before  the  direct  foundations  of  her  future  fame  were 
laid.  It  is  a  piece  of  good  fortune  for  the  world 
that  so  clever  and  sympathetic  a  hand  as  that  of 
her  friend,  the  Duchess  of  Cajanello,  picked  up 
that  thread  of  mingled  strands — pure  gold  en- 
twined with  black. 

Sdnya's  Recollections  of  her  Childhood  and  the 
Duchess's  memoir  of  her  after  career,  as  com- 
bined in  this  volume,  furnish  a  wonderfully 
perfect  mental  and  spiritual  record  of  a  woman 
upon  whom  the  union  of  a  masculine  mind  with  a 
feminine  heart  imposed  the  difficult  task  of  solving 
diametrically  opposite  problems  which  all  women, 
gifted  or  otherwise,  must  face. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  1 

By  S6nya  KovaleVsky.  Translated  from  the  Eussian 
by  Isabel  F.  Hapgood. 

S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY  155 

A  Biography  by  Anna  Carlotta  Leffler,  Duchess  of 
Cajanello.  Translated  from  the  Swedish  by  A.  M. 
Clive  Bayley.  , 

NOTE  299 

Extracts  from  Ellen  Key's  Biography  of  the  Duchess 
of  Cajanello.  Translated  by  I.  F.  Hapgood. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  304 

By  Lily  Wolffsohn. 

APPENDICES  315 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD 
BY  SCNYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

TRANSLATED  PROM  THE  RUSSIAN 
BY  ISABEL  F.  HAPGOOD 


KECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 


FIRST  MEMORIES 

I  SHOULD  like  to  know  whether  any  one  can 
definitely  fix  that  moment  of  his  existence  when, 
for  the  first  time,  a  distinct  conception  of  his  own 
personality,  his  own  ego,  the  first  glimmer  of  con- 
scious life,  arose  within  him.  I  cannot,  in  the  least. 
When  I  begin  to  sort  out  and  classify  my  earliest 
recollections,  the  same  thing  always  happens  with 
me :  these  recollections  disperse  before  me.  At  times  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  have  found  that  first  definite  impres- 
sion which  has  left  a  distinct  trace  in  my  memory; 
but  as  soon  as  I  concentrate  my  thoughts  on  it  for  a 
while,  other  impressions,  of  a  still  more  remote  period, 
begin  to  peep  forth  and  acquire  form.  And  the  diffi- 
culty of  it  is  that  I  cannot  myself  in  the  least  deter- 
mine which  of  these  impressions  I  really  remember; 
that  is  to  say,  I  cannot  decide  which  of  them  I  really 
lived  through,  and  which  of  them  I  only  heard  about 
later  on, — in  my  childhood, — and  imagine  that  I  re- 
call, when,  in  reality.  I  only  remember  the  accounts 
of  them.  Worse  still,  I  can  never  succeed  in  evoking 
a  single  one  of  these  original  recollections  in  all  its 
purity;  I  involuntarily  add  to  it  something  foreign 
during  the  very  process  of  recalling  it. 

At  any  rate,  this  picture  is  among  the  first  which 
i  i 


2  S6NYA  KOVAL&VSKY 

presents  itself  every  time  that  I  begin  to  recall  the 
very  earliest  years  of  my  life. 

A  chiming  of  bells.  An  odor  of  incense.  A  throng 
of  people  comes  out  of  the  church.  Nurse  leads  me 
by  the  hand  from  the  church  porch,  carefully  shield- 
ing me  from  being  jostled.  "  Don't  hurt  the  child ! " 
she  repeats  every  moment,  in  a  beseeching  tone,  to  the 
people  who  are  crowding  about  us. 

As  we  emerge  from  the  church,  one  of  nurse's 
acquaintances  approaches,  clad  in  a  long  under-cas- 
sock  (he  must  have  been  a  deacon  or  a  chanter),  and 
gives  her  one  of  the  little  sacramental  loaves.1  "  Eat, 
and  may  health  attend  you,  madam,"  he  says  to  her. 

"  Come,  now;  tell  us  your  name,  my  clever  child," 
he  says  to  me. 

I  make  no  reply,  but  stare  at  him  with  all  my  eyes. 

"'T  is  shameful,  miss,  not  to  know  your  name!" 
says  the  chanter,  jeeringly. 

"  Tell  him,  my  dear,  '  My  name  is  Sonetchka,  and 
my  father  is  General  Krukovsky/  "  nurse  prompts  me. 

I  try  to  repeat  after  her,  but  it  must  have  been  a 
failure,  for  nurse  and  her  friend  break  out  laughing. 

Nurse's  friend  accompanies  us  home.  I  dance  about 
all  the  way,  and  repeat  nurse's  words,  mangling  them 
after  my  own  fashion.  Evidently  this  is  a  new  fact 
to  me,  and  I  try  to  engrave  it  in  my  memory. 

As  we  approach  our  house,  the  chanter  points  out 
the  gate  to  me. 

"You  see,  little  "bdryslmya  [miss],  there  is  a  hook 
hanging  on  the  gate,"  he  says.  "  When  you  forget 

1A  prosford :  the  little  leavened  double  loaf,  from  bits  of  which 
the  communion  is  prepared.  When  more  than  one  prosford  is 
used  the  auxiliary  loaves  are  generally  given  to  persons  of  dis- 
tinction who  may  be  present.  Such  a  gift  is  regarded  as  a  com- 
pliment and  favor. — Trans. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  3 

your  papa's  name,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  think,  'A 
hook  [kriuk]  hangs  on  Krukovsky's  gate/  and  you 
will  immediately  remember  it." 

And  thus,  shameful  as  it  is  for  me  to  confess  it, 
this  wretched  chanter's  pun  imprinted  itself  on  my 
memory,  and  constituted  an  era  in  my  existence; 
from  it  I  date  my  chronology,  the  first  invasion 
upon  me  of  a  distinct  idea  as  to  who  I  was,  and  what 
was  my  position  in  the  world. 

As  I  reflect  upon  the  matter  now,  I  think  I  must 
have  been  two  or  three  years  old,  and  that  this  scene 
took  place  in  Moscow,  where  I  was  born.  My  father 
served  in  the  artillery,  and  we  were  often  compelled  to 
move  about  from  town  to  town,  accompanying  him  in 
accordance  with  the  requirements  of  his  mili tary  duties. 

After  this  first  scene,  which  is  distinctly  preserved 
in  my  memory,  comes  another  long  gap,  against  whose 
gray,  misty  background  divers  little  wayside  scenes 
detach  themselves,  only  in  the  shape  of  bright,  scat- 
tered spots:  picking  up  pebbles  on  the  highway, 
bivouacs  at  posting-stations,  my  sister's  doll  which  I 
threw  out  of  the  carriage  window  —  a  series  of  de- 
tached, but  tolerably  clear  pictures. 

My  coherent  recollections  begin  with  me  only  at 
the  age  of  five  years,  and  when  we  lived  in  Kaluga. 
There  were  three  of  us  children  then:  my  sister 
Aniuta  was  six  years  older  than  I,  and  my  brother 
Fedya  was  three  years  younger. 

Our  nursery  presents  itself  before  my  eyes.  A  spa- 
cious, but  low-ceiled  room.  "We  could  easily  touch 
the  ceiling  with  our  hands,  by  standing  on  a  chair. 
All  three  of  us  slept  in  the  nursery.  There  was  some 
talk  of  sending  Aniuta  to  sleep  in  the  room  of  her 
governess,  a  Frenchwoman;  but  she  did  not  wish  to 
do  it,  and  preferred  to  stay  with  us. 


4  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

Our  childish  beds,  guarded  by  railings,  stood  side 
by  side,  so  that  in  the  mornings  we  could,  and  did, 
crawl  from  one  to  the  other  without  setting  foot  on 
the  floor.  At  a  little  distance  stood  nurse's  large 
bed,  upon  which  rose  a  perfect  mountain  of  feather 
beds  and  down  pillows.  Nurse  was  very  proud  of  it. 
Sometimes,  during  the  day,  when  she  was  in  a  partic- 
ularly good  humor,  she  would  permit  us  to  tumble 
about  on  her  bed.  We  would  climb  upon  it  with  the 
aid  of  a  chair,  but  no  sooner  did  we  reach  the  very 
summit  than  the  mountain  slid  out  from  under  us, 
and  away  we  went  into  a  soft  sea  of  down.  This 
delighted  us  greatly. 

No  sooner  do  I  think  of  our  nursery  than,  by  an 
inevitable  association  of  ideas,  I  begin  to  be  aware  of 
a  peculiar  odor — a  mixture  of  incense,  olive-oil,  May 
balsam,  and  the  smoke  of  tallow-candles.  It  is  a 
very  long  time  since  I  chanced  to  encounter  any- 
where that  peculiar  odor ;  indeed,  I  believe  that,  not 
only  abroad,  but  even  in  St.  Petersburg  and  Moscow, 
it  is  now  very  rarely  to  be  encountered.  But  two  years 
ago,  when  I  was  visiting  some  of  my  country  acquain- 
tances, I  went  into  their  nursery,  and  that  familiar 
smell  immediately  surged  to  meet  me,  and  evoked  a 
whole  series  of  long-forgotten  memories  and  emotions. 

The  French  governess  could  not  enter  our  nursery 
without  cautiously  putting  her  handkerchief  to  her 
nose. 

"  Do  open  the  window-pane,  nurse ! "  she  would 
entreat,  in  her  broken  Russian. 

Nurse  took  the  remark  in  the  lightof  a  personal  insult. 

"  What  idea  has  she  got  into  her  head  now,  the 
Mohammedan  heathen !  As  if  I  would  open  the  pane 
and  give  the  master's  children  their  death  of  cold ! " 
she  would  mutter  as  the  governess  left  the  room. 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  5 

The  skirmish  between  nurse  and  the  governess  was 
repeated,  point  for  point,  every  morning. 

The  sun  has  long  since  peeped  into  our  nursery. 
We  children  are  beginning,  one  by  one,  to  open  our 
eyes,  but  we  are  in  no  haste  to  rise  and  dress. 
Between  the  moment  of  wakening  and  the  moment 
of  setting  about  our  toilets  lies  a  long  interval  of 
nestling  about,  throwing  pillows  at  one  another,  seiz- 
ing one  another  by  the  bare  feet,  and  chattering  all 
sorts  of  nonsense. 

An  appetizing  odor  of  coffee  begins  to  waft  through 
the  room.  Nurse  herself,  only  half  clad,  and  having 
merely  changed  her  night-cap  for  the  silken  kerchief 
which  invariably  conceals  her  hair  during  the  day, 
brings  in  a  tray  with  a  big  copper  coffee-pot,  and 
begins  to  regale  us  —  still  in  bed,  still  unwashed, 
uncombed — with  coffee  and  cream,  and  with  rolls  pre- 
pared with  milk,  eggs,  and  butter. 

It  sometimes  happens  that,  after  eating,  we  are 
wearied  with  the  process  of  digestion,  and  fall  asleep 
again. 

But  now  the  door  of  the  nursery  flies  open  nois- 
ily, and  the  angry  governess  makes  her  appearance 
on  the  threshold. 

"Comment!  Vous  etes  encore  au  lit,  Annette! 
II  est  onze  heures.  Vous  etes  encore  en  retard  pour 
votre  lec.on !  " 1  she  wrathf ully  exclaims. 

"  They  cannot  be  allowed  to  sleep  so  long.  I  shall 
complain  to  the  general ! "  she  says  to  nurse. 

"And  the  master's  child  can't  even  have  enough 
sleep !  She  's  late  for  your  lesson  !  A  great  misfor- 
tune, truly !  Well,  just  you  wait  —  you  're  not  such 
a  grand  person,  after  all ! " 

1  "What!  You  are  still  in  bed,  Annette!  It  is  eleven  o'clock. 
You  are  late  again  for  your  lessons." 


6  S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

Nevertheless,  despite  her  grumbling,  nurse  now 
considers  it  expedient  to  set  about  our  toilets  in  ear- 
nest; and  it  must  be  confessed  that  if  the  prepara- 
tions have  lasted  a  long  time,  the  toilet  itself  is  very 
speedily  despatched.  Nurse  wipes  our  faces  and 
hands  with  a  wet  towel,  draws  the  comb  a  couple  of 
times  through  our  disheveled  manes,  puts  on  our 
clothes  (which  often  lack  several  buttons),  and  we  are 
ready ! 

My  sister  is  sent  off  to  her  lesson  with  the  gover- 
ness, but  my  brother  and  I  remain  in  the  nursery. 
Not  in  the  least  disturbed  by  our  presence,  nurse 
sweeps  the  floor  a  little  with  a  brush,  raising  a  per- 
fect cloud  of  dust,  spreads  the  coverlets  over  our 
beds,  shakes  up  her  own  down  pillows,  and  the  nur- 
sery is  again  considered  to  be  in  order  for  the  whole 
day.  My  brother  and  I  sit  on  the  divan  covered  with 
waxed  cloth  which  is  pierced  in  places  with  holes 
through  which  the  horsehair  protrudes  in  huge  tufts, 
and  amuse  ourselves  with  our  playthings.  We  are 
rarely  taken  to  walk,  only  in  the  case  of  exception- 
ally fine  weather,  and  on  great  festival  days,  when 
nurse  takes  us  to  church  with  her. 

As  soon  as  my  sister  has  finished  her  lesson,  she 
runs  back  to  us.  She  is  bored  when  she  is  with 
the  governess,  and  finds  it  more  amusing  with  us 
— the  more  so  because  visitors  often  come  to  see 
nurse — other  nurses  or  maids,  whom  she  treats  to 
coffee,  and  from  whom  we  may  hear  many  interesting 

things. 

Sometimes  mama  looks  into  the  nursery.  When 
I  recall  my  mother  during  this  first  period  of  my 
childhood,  she  always  presents  herself  to  me  as  a 
very  young,  very  handsome  woman.  I  see  her  al- 
ways very  merry,  and  handsomely  dressed.  I  recall 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  7 

her  most  frequently  as  in  a  ball-gown  with  low-cut 
corsage  and  bare  arms,  with  a  multitude  of  bracelets 
and  rings. 

She  is  going  somewhere,  to  some  evening  party, 
and  has  come  in  to  take  leave  of  us. 

As  soon  as  she  showed  herself  at  the  door  of  the 
nursery,  Aniuta  would  run  to  her,  begin  to  kiss  her 
arms  and  neck,  and  inspect  and  handle  all  her  golden 
trinkets. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  just  such  a  beauty  as  mama 
when  I  grow  up ! "  she  says,  fastening  mama's  orna- 
ments on  herself,  and  standing  on  tiptoe  to  get  a  look 
at  herself  in  the  little  mirror  which  hangs  on  the 
wall.  This  greatly  amuses  mama. 

Sometimes  I  feel  an  inclination  to  caress  mama, 
to  climb  upon  her  knees;  but,  somehow  or  other, 
these  attempts  always  end  in  my  hurting  mama 
through  my  awkwardness,  or  tearing  her  gown,  and 
then  I  run  away  and  hide  myself  in  the  corner  with 
shame.  For  this  reason  I  began  to  develop  a  sort  of 
shyness  toward  mama,  and  this  shyness  was  fur- 
ther augmented  by  the  fact  that  I  often  heard  nurse 
say  that  Aniuta  and  Fedya  were  mama's  favorites, 
and  that  mama  disliked  me. 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  was  true  or  not,  but 
nurse  often  said  it,  quite  regardless  of  my  presence. 
Perhaps  it  only  seemed  so  to  her,  because  she  herself 
loved  me  much  more  than  she  loved  the  other  chil- 
dren. Although  she  had  brought  up  all  three  of  us 
in  exactly  the  same  manner,  for  some  reason  or  other 
she  considered  me  her  nursling  in  particular,  and 
therefore  took  offense,  on  my  account,  at  every  slight 
which  was,  in  her  opinion,  shown  to  me. 

Aniuta,  as  considerably  the  oldest,  naturally  en- 
joyed special  privileges  over  us.  She  grew  up  wild 


8  S(3NYA  KOVALtiVSKY 

as  a  free  kazak,  recognizing  no  authority  over  her 
actions.  She  possessed  the  right  of  free  entry  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  from  her  infancy  she  had  won  the 
reputation  of  being  a  charming  child,  and  was  accus- 
tomed to  entertain  the  guests  with  brilliant  and 
sometimes  even  impertinent  sallies  and  remarks. 

But  my  brother  and  I  showed  ourselves  in  the  state 
apartments  only  on  extraordinary  occasions.  We 
generally  breakfasted  and  dined  in  the  nursery. 

Sometimes,  when  we  had  guests  to  dinner,  ma- 
ma's maid,  Nastasya,  would  run  into  the  nursery 
during  the  dessert. 

"Nursey,  put  on  Fedenka's  blue  silk  blouse,  and 
take  him  to  the  dining-room.  The  mistress  wishes  to 
show  him  to  her  guests ! "  she  would  say. 

"And  what  am  I  ordered  to  put  on  S6netchka?" 
asks  nurse,  in  an  angry  tone,  because  she  already 
foresees  what  the  answer  will  be. 

"  S6netchka  is  not  wanted.  She  is  to  stay  in  the 
nursery !  She  's  our  little  stay-at-home ! "  replies  the 
maid,  with  a  laugh,  knowing  how  this  answer  will 
enrage  nurse. 

And,  in  fact,  nurse  does  regard  this  wish  to  exhibit 
Fedenka  only  to  the  guests  as  a  bitter  insult  to  me ; 
and  she  goes  about  in  a  rage  for  a  long  time  afterward, 
muttering  to  herself,  gazing  at  me  with  compassion, 
and  stroking  my  hair,  as  she  adds :  "  My  poor  child, 
my  bright  darling ! " 

IT  is  night.  Nurse  has  already  put  me  and  my 
brother  to  bed,  but  she  has  not  yet  taken  off  her  in- 
evitable silk  kerchief,  the  removal  of  which  signifies 
with  her  the  transition  from  meditation  to  repose. 
She  is  sitting  on  the  divan,  in  front  of  the  round 
table,  and  drinking  tea  with  Nastasya. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  9 

A  semi-darkness  reigns  in  the  nursery.  The  rather 
dirty  flame  of  the  tallow  candle  alone  stands  out  like 
a  yellow  spot  amid  the  gloom,  because  nurse  has  for- 
gotten this  long  time  to  snuff  it,  and  from  the  oppo- 
site corner  of  the  room  the  quivering  little  blue  flame 
of  the  shrine-lamp  casts  wonderful  shadows  on  the 
ceiling  and  brilliantly  illuminates  the  hand  of  the 
Savior  raised  in  benediction,  which  stands  out  in 
relief  against  the  silver  vestment  of  the  holy  picture. 

Almost  directly  beside  me  I  hear  the  even  breath- 
ing of  my  brother,  and  from  the  corner  beyond  the 
stove-couch  comes  the  heavy,  nasal  respiration  of 
our  nursery  serving-maid,  snub-nosed  Feklusha, 
nurse's  scape-goat.  She  sleeps  in  the  nursery,  on 
the  floor,  on  a  piece  of  gray  felt,  which  she  spreads 
down  at  night,  and  tucks  away  in  a  lumber-room 
during  the  day. 

Nurse  and  Nastasya  are  conversing  in  a  low  tone, 
and,  imagining  that  we  are  asleep,  they  discuss  all 
the  household  affairs  without  reserve.  But,  in  the 
meantime,  I  am  not  asleep  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  am  lis- 
tening intently  to  their  conversation.  Of  course  there 
is  much  that  I  do  not  understand ;  much  is  very  inter- 
esting to  me.  It  sometimes  happens  that  I  fall 
asleep  in  the  middle  of  a  story,  and  do  not  hear  the 
end.  But  the  scraps  of  their  conversation  which  do 
reach  my  consciousness  form  themselves  into  fantas- 
tic figures  therein,  and  leave  behind  them  ineffaceable 
traces  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

"  Well,  and  how  am  I  to  help  loving  her,  my  dar- 
ling, more  than  the  other  children  ? "  I  hear  the  nurse 
say,  and  I  understand  that  they  are  discussing  me. 
"  Why,  I  have  reared  her  almost  entirely  by  myself. 
When  our  Aniutka  was  born,  papa,  and  mama,  and 
grandpa,  and  the  aunts  never  could  get  their  fill  of 


10  S6NYA  KOVAL^VSKY 

gazing  at  her  because  she  was  the  first-born.  I  never 
got  a  chance  to  nurse  her  properly.  Every  minute 
they  were  taking  her  away  from  me.  Now  one,  and 
now  another.  But  with  S6netchka  it  was  quite  an- 
other matter." 

At  this  point  in  the  oft-repeated  tale,  nurse  always 
lowered  her  voice  mysteriously,  which,  of  course, 
made  me  prick  up  my  ears  all  the  more. 

"  She  was  n't  born  at  the  right  time,  my  darling, 
that 's  what 's  the  matter !  "  says  nurse,  in  a  half  whis- 
per. "  You  know  the  master  lost  all  his  money  at  cards 
in  the  English  Club  on  the  eve  of  her  birth,  so  that 
they  let  everything  go.  They  were  forced  to  pawn 
the  mistress's  diamonds  !  Now,  and  how  could  they 
rejoice  that  God  had  sent  them  a  daughter  ?  More- 
over, master  and  mistress  both  wanted  a  son  without 
fail.  The  mistress  used  to  say  to  me :  '  You  '11  see, 
nurse,  it  will  be  a  boy ! '  They  had  prepared  every- 
thing properly  for  a  boy — a  cross  with  the  Crucified 
One,  and  a  little  cap  with  a  blue  ribbon — but  no,  go 
to!  another  girl-baby  was  born!  The  master  and 
mistress  were  so  chagrined,  that  they  would  n't  look 
at  her,  and  it  was  only  Fedenka  who  consoled  them 
afterward." 

Nurse  repeated  this  story  very  frequently,  and  on 
every  occasion  I  listened  to  it  with  the  same  curios- 
ity, so  that  it  became  firmly  engraved  on  my  memory. 

Thanks  to  similar  stories,  the  conviction  was  early 
developed  in  me  that  I  was  disliked,  and  this  was 
reflected  in  my  whole  character.  I  began  to  grow 
more  and  more  shy  and  self-contained. 

They  would  take  me  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
there  I  would  stand  with  down-cast  eyes,  clutching 
nurse's  gown  with  both  my  hands.  Not  a  word  was 
to  be  got  out  of  me.  No  matter  how  much  nurse 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  11 

coaxed  me,  I  maintained  an  obstinate  silence,  and 
merely  gazed  askance  at  every  one  with  fear  and  mal- 
ice, like  a  hunted  beast,  until  mama  said,  at  last,  in 
vexation:  "Well,  nurse,  take  your  savage  back  to 
the  nursery !  Nothing  but  shame  is  to  be  had  from 
her  in  the  presence  of  guests.  She  certainly  must 
have  swallowed  her  naughty  little  tongue ! " 

I  held  aloof,  also,  from  strange  children,  and,  in- 
deed, I  rarely  saw  them.  I  remember,  however,  that 
when  I  was  walking  with  nurse,  and  sometimes  met 
little  street  boys  and  girls  playing  at  some  noisy 
game,  I  felt  envious,  and  wished  to  join  them.  But 
nurse  never  permitted  me.  "  What 's  the  matter  with 
you,  my  dear  ? l  How  is  it  possible  for  you,  miss,  to 
play  with  common  children  ? "  she  said  in  a  voice  of 
such  reproach  and  conviction  that,  as  I  now  recall 
the  matter,  I  immediately  became  ashamed  of  my 
own  wish.  Soon  even  the  desire  and  capability  of 
playing  with  other  children  abandoned  me.  I  remem- 
ber that  when  some  little  girl  or  other  of  my  own 
age  was  brought  to  visit  me,  I  never  knew  what  to 
talk  to  her  about,  and  all  I  could  do  was  to  stand 
stock-still  and  say  to  myself :  "  Will  she  go  away 
soon  ?  " 

I  was  happiest  of  all  when  I  was  left  alone  with 
nurse.  In  the  evening,  when  Fedya  had  been  put  to 
bed,  and  Aniuta  had  run  off  to  the  drawing-room, 
to  the  grown-up  people,  I  would  sit  down  beside 
nurse  on  the  divan,  nestle  up  very  close  to  her,  and 
she  would  begin  to  tell  me  fairy  tales.  I  judge  as  to 
the  depth  of  the  trace  which  these  fairy  tales  left  on 
my  imagination  by  the  fact  that,  although  now  I  can 
recall  only  snatches  of  them  when  I  am  awake,  yet  in 
my  sleep,  down  to  the  present  day,  I  suddenly  begin 
^Mdtotchka, —  literally,  "My  dear  little  mother." 


12  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

to  dream  of  "  black  death,"  or  of  the  "  wer-wolf,"  or 
"the  twelve-headed  dragon";  arid  this  dream  always 
produces  in  me  the  same  unaccountable,  soul-oppress- 
ing fear  which  I  experienced  at  the  age  of  five  years 
as  I  listened  to  nurse's  tales. 

About  this  period  of  my  life,  something  strange 
began  to  take  place  in  me:  a  feeling  of  involuntary 
distress,  of  anguish,  began  to  come  over  me  at  times. 
I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  this  feeling.  It  gener- 
ally fell  upon  me  if  I  were  left  alone  in  the  room  at 
the  approach  of  twilight.  I  would  be  playing  with 
my  toys,  thinking  of  nothing.  All  at  once  I  would 
look  up  and  see  behind  me  a  sharp,  black  strip  of 
shadow,  creeping  out  from  under  the  bed,  or  from 
the  corner.  A  sensation  would  seize  upon  me  as  if 
some  strange  presence  had  crept  into  the  room ;  and 
this  new,  unfamiliar  presence  would  suddenly  clutch 
my  heart  so  painfully,  that  I  flew  headlong  in  search 
of  nurse,  whose  proximity  usually  had  the  power  to 
soothe  me.  It  sometimes  happened,  however,  that 
this  torturing  sensation  did  not  pass  off  for  a  long 
while,  for  the  space  of  several  hours. 

I  believe  that  many  nervous  children  experience 
something  similar.  In  such  cases,  it  is  usually  as- 
serted that  the  child  is  afraid  of  darkness,  but  this 
expression  is  entirely  inaccurate.  In  the  first  place, 
the  sensation  experienced  in  these  circumstances  is 
very  complicated,  and  much  more  nearly  resembles 
anguish  than  fear;  in  the  second  place,  it  is  not 
evoked  by  the  darkness  itself,  or  by  any  fancies 
therewith  connected,  but  precisely  by  the  feeling  of 
the  oncoming  darkness.  I  remember,  also,  that  a 
very  similar  feeling  came  over  me  in  my  childhood, 
under  entirely  different  circumstances;  for  example, 
if,,  during  my  walks,  I  suddenly  espied  before  me  a  big, 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  13 

half-built  house,  with  bare  brick  walls,  and  empty 
openings  instead  of  windows.  I  experienced  it,  also, 
in  summer,  if  I  lay  on  my  back  on  the  ground,  and 
gazed  up  into  the  cloudless  sky. 

Other  symptoms  of  great  nervousness  also  began 
to  make  their  appearance  in  me:  my  disgust,  which 
approached  fear  in  its  intensity,  for  all  sorts  of 
physical  monstrosities.  If  a  two-headed  chicken  or  a 
three-legged  calf  was  mentioned  in  my  presence,  I 
began  to  tremble  all  over,  and  then,  the  following 
night,  I  inevitably  saw  the  monster  in  my  dreams, 
and  woke  nurse  with  a  piercing  scream.  Even  now 
I  remember  the  three-legged  man  who  persecuted  me 
in  my  dreams  during  the  whole  of  my  childhood. 

Even  the  sight  of  a  broken  doll  inspired  me  with  ter- 
ror :  when  I  chanced  to  drop  my  doll,  nurse  had  to  pick 
her  up  and  tell  me  whether  or  no  her  head  was  broken; 
if  it  was,  she  had  to  take  her  away  without  showing  her 
to  me.  I  still  remember  how,  one  day,  Aniuta  caught 
me  alone,  without  nurse,  and,  wishing  to  tease  me, 
began  forcibly  to  thrust  before  my  eyes  a  wax  doll, 
from  whose  head  dangled  a  black  eye  which  had 
been  torn  out,  and  thereby  threw  me  into  convulsions. 

On  the  whole,  I  was  on  the  highway  to  turn  out  a 
nervous,  sickly  child;  but  soon  all  my  surroundings 
changed,  and  there  was  an  end  to  all  that  had  gone 
before. 


II 


WHEN  I  was  about  six  years  old,  my  father  retired 
from  the  service,  and  settled  on  his  hereditary 
estate,  Palibino,  in  the  Government  of  Vitebsk.  At  that 
time  persistent  rumors  were  afloat  about  the  impend- 
ing "emancipation";  and  they  spurred  on  my  father 
more  seriously  to  occupy  himself  with  the  manage- 
ment of  affairs,  which  had  been  hitherto  superintended 
by  the  -overseer. 

Soon  after  our  removal  to  the  country,  a  circum- 
stance occurred  in  our  house  which  remained  very 
vividly  imprinted  on  my  memory.  Moreover,  this 
occurrence  produced  so  powerful  an  impression  upon 
every  one  in  the  house,  that  it  was  frequently  referred 
to  afterward,  so  that  my  personal  recollections  be- 
came entangled  with  later  accounts  of  it  to  such  a 
degree  that  I  cannot  disentangle  the  former  from  the 
latter.  Therefore,  I  narrate  the  occurrence  as  it  now 
presents  itself  to  me. 

Various  articles  suddenly  began  to  disappear  from 
our  nursery;  behold,  first  one  thing  would  vanish 
and  then  another.  If  nurse  forgot  anything  for  a 
time,  it  was  nowhere  to  be  found  when  she  wanted  to 
get  it  again,  although  nurse  was  ready  to  take  her 
oath  that  she  had  put  it  away  in  the  cupboard,  or  the 
chest  of  drawers,  with  her  own  hands.  At  first,  these 
losses  were  accepted  with  a  good  deal  of  indifference; 

14 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  15 

but  when  they  began  to  occur  with  ever-increasing 
frequency,  and  to  extend  to  articles  of  greater  and 
greater  value;  when  things  began  to  disappear  in 
rapid  succession  —  a  silver  spoon,  a  gold  thimble,  a 
mother-of-pearl  pen-knife — an  uproar  arose  in  the 
house.  It  became  apparent  that  we  had  a  thief  in 
the  house.  Nurse,  who  considered  herself  responsible 
for  the  children's  belongings,  was  more  alarmed  than 
all  the  rest,  and  determined,  at  any  cost,  to  discover 
the  thief. 

Naturally,  suspicion  must  fall,  first  of  all,  on  poor 
Feklusha,  the  maid  appointed  to  our  service.  It  is 
true  that  Feklusha  had  been  attached  to  the  nursery 
for  the  past  three  years,  and  nurse  had  never  noticed 
anything  of  the  sort  about  her  during  all  that  time. 
But,  in  nurse's  opinion,  this  proved  nothing  at  all. 
"  Before,  she  was  young,  and  did  not  understand  the 
value  of  things,"  nurse  argued,  "but  now  she  is  grown 
up  and  become  wiser.  Moreover,  her  family  live 
yonder  in  the  village,  and  she  is  carrying  off  the  mas- 
ter's property  to  them." 

On  the  foundation  of  this  reasoning,  nurse  became 
so  permeated  with  the  inward  conviction  of  Feklu- 
sha's  guilt  that  she  began  to  treat  her  with  increasing 
surliness  and  disfavor;  and  poor,  frightened,  unhappy 
Feklusha,  who  instinctively  felt  that  she  was  sus- 
pected, began  to  exhibit  a  more  and  more  guilty 
aspect. 

But  watch  Feklusha  as  she  would,  nurse  could  not 
for  a  long  while  catch  her  at  anything.  One  fine  day 
Aniuta's  money-box,  which  always  stood  in  nurse's 
cupboard,  and  contained  forty  rubles  or  more,  disap- 
peared. The  news  of  this  last  loss  reached  even  my 
father's  ears ;  he  ordered  nurse  to  be  sent  to  him,  and 
gave  strict  orders  that  the  thief  must  be  found  with- 


16  S6NYA  KOVAL^VSKY 

out  fail.  Then  every  one  understood  that  it  was  no 
jesting  matter. 

Nurse  was  in  despair,  but  one  night  she  awoke  and 
heard  a  queer  munching  proceeding  from  the  corner 
where  Feklusha  slept.  Already  inclined  to  suspicion, 
nurse  cautiously,  noiselessly  put  out  her  hand  for  the 
matches  and  suddenly  struck  a  light.  What  did  she 
see? 

Feklusha  was  squatting  on  her  heels,  holding  a 
huge  pot  of  sweetmeats  between  her  knees,  and  was 
devouring  it  like  a  plowman,  and  licking  out  the 
pot  with  a  crust  of  bread. 

I  must  state  that  a  few  days  previously  the  house- 
keeper had  complained  that  preserves  had  begun  to 
disappear  from  her  storeroom. 

Of  course  it  was  only  the  work  of  a  second  for 
nurse  to  spring  out  of  bed  and  seize  the  culprit  by 
her  braid  of  hair. 

"Ah!  I  've  caught  you,  you  good-for-nothing! 
Tell  me,  where  did  you  get  those  preserves?"  she 
shouted  in  a  thundering  voice,  shaking  the  girl 
unmercifully  by  the  hair. 

"  Nurse,  darling;  I'm  not  guilty,  truly  I  am  not ! " 
Feklusha  began  to  entreat.  "  The  seamstress,  Mary  a 
Vasilievna,  gave  me  this  pot  of  preserves  yesterday 
evening.  She  only  enjoined  upon  me  not  to  show  it 
to  you." 

This  justification  appeared  thoroughly  improbable 
to  nurse. 

"Come,  woman;  't  is  plain  that  you  are  not  an 
adept  at  lying,"  she  said  scornfully.  "  It  is  a  likely 
thing  that  it  should  enter  into  Marya  Vasilievna:s 
head  to  treat  you  to  sweetmeats." 

"Nurse,  darling;  I'm  not  lying — ai,  a'i!  it  is  the 
truth.  Only  ask  her  yourself.  I  heated  her  irons  for 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  17 

her  yesterday,  and  she  gave  me  these  preserves  for  do- 
ing it.  Only  she  ordered  me,  'Don't  show  them  to 
nurse,  or  she  will  scold,  and  say  that  I  am  spoiling 
you/  "  Feklusha  continued  to  asseverate. 

"Come,  that  will  do;  we  '11  investigate  that  to-mor- 
row," said  nurse  decisively,  and  she  locked  Feklusha 
up  to  await  the  morning  in  a  dark  lumber-room, 
whence  her  sobs  long  continued  to  resound.  The 
next  morning  an  investigation  was  begun. 

Marya  Vasilievna  was  a  seamstress  who  had  lived 
many  years  in  our  house.  She  was  not  a  serf,  but  a 
free  peasant,  and  enjoyed  great  respect  among  the 
rest  of  the  servants.  She  had  a  room  to  herself, 
where  she  dined  on  food  sent  from  the  master's 
table.1  She  bore  herself  very  loftily,  and  was  never 
intimate  with  any  of  the  other  servants.  We  valued 
her  highly  in  the  house  because  she  was  so  clever  in 
her  work.  "  Her  hands  are  simply  golden,"  they  said 
of  her.  I  think  she  was  about  forty  years  of  age. 
Her  face  was  thin,  sickly,  with  large,  dark  eyes.  She 
was  not  pretty,  but  I  remember  that  my  elders  always 
said  that  she  was  very  distinguished  in  appearance. 
"You  would  never  dream  that  she  was  a  common 
seamstress."  She  always  dressed  cleanly  and  pre- 
cisely, and  kept  her  room  very  neat,  with  even  some 
pretensions  to  elegance.  Several  pots  with  geraniums 
always  stood  on  her  window-sill,  the  walls  were  hung 
with  cheap  pictures,  and  on  a  shelf  in  the  corner 
various  porcelain  trifles  were  set  out  —  a  swan  with 
a  gilded  beak,  a  slipper  all  covered  with  little  pink 
flowers  —  over  which  I  went  into  ecstasies  in  my 
childhood. 

1  Servants  are  generally  fed  on  food  specially  prepared  for 
them,  such  as  cabbage  soup,  buckwheat  groats,  cucumbers, 
black  bread,  etc. —  Trans. 


IS  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

Marya  Vasilievna  was  especially  interesting  to  us 
children,  because  the  following  story  was  current  in 
regard  to  her.  In  her  youth  she  had  been  a  hand- 
some and  healthy  girl,  and  had  been  the  serf  of  a 
certain  woman  with  a  landed  estate,  who  had  a 
grown-up  son,  an  officer.  The  latter  had  once  come 
home  on  leave,  and  had  given  Marya  Vasilievna  sev- 
eral silver  coins.  Unfortunately,  the  old  lady  en- 
tered the  maids'  hall  just  at  that  moment,  and  saw 
the  money  in  Marya  Vasilievna's  hands.  "Where 
did  you  get  it  ? "  she  asked ;  but  Marya  Vasilievna 
was  so  frightened  that,  instead  of  replying,  she  took 
and  swallowed  the  money. 

She  became  ill  immediately.  She  turned  quite 
black,  and  fell,  choking,  on  the  floor.  They  had  great 
difficulty  in  saving  her,  and  she  lay  ill  for  a  long 
while,  and  from  that  time  her  beauty  and  freshness 
vanished.  The  old  lady  died  soon  afterward,  and 
Marya  Vasilievna  received  her  freedom  from  the 
young  master. 

The  story  of  the  swallowed  money  was  awfully  in- 
teresting to  us  children,  and  we  often  insisted  that 
Marya  Vasilievna  should  tell  us  how  it  all  happened. 

Marya  Vasilievna  came  to  our  nursery  quite  fre- 
quently, although  she  and  nurse  were  not  on  very 
good  terms.  We  children  were  also  fond  of  running 
to  her  room,  especially  at  the  twilight  hour,  when  she 
was  forced,  willingly  or  unwillingly,  to  lay  aside  her 
work.  Then  she  would  sit  down  at  the  window,  and, 
supporting  her  head  on  her  hand,  she  would  begin  to 
sing  various  touching  old  romances,  ''Through  the 
level  valleys,"  or,  "  Dark  flower,  gloomy  flower."  She 
sang  very  mournfully,  but  I  was  very  fond  of  her 
singing  in  my  childhood,  though  it  always  made  me 
sad.  Sometimes  her  singing  was  interrupted  by  a  fit 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  19 

of  the  terrible  coughing  which  had  tortured  her  for 
many  years,  and  which  seemed  as  if  it  must  burst  her 
flat,  dry  chest. 

When,  on  the  morning  following  the  affair  with 
Feklusha  which  I  have  described,  nurse  addressed 
herself  to  Marya  Vasilievna  with  the  question : 
was  it  true  that  she  had  given  the  girl  the  preserves  ? 
Marya  Vasilievna,  as  was  to  have  been  expected, 
assumed  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  What  have  you  got  into  your  head,  my  dear 
nurse?  Would  I  spoil  the  wretched  little  girl  like 
that  ?  I  have  n't  any  preserves  myself ! "  she  said,  in 
an  offended  voice. 

The  matter  was  now  clear ;  but  Feklusha's  impu- 
dence was  so  immense  that,  despite  this  categorical 
denial,  she  persisted  in  her  assertion. 

"  Marya  Vasilievna !  Christ  be  with  you !  Is  it 
possible  that  you  have  forgotten?  Only  yesterday 
evening  you  called  me  to  you  and  gave  me  the  pre- 
serves," she  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  broken  by  tears, 
and  she  shook  as  if  in  a  fever. 

"  You  must  be  ill  and  raving,  Feklusha,"  replied 
Marya  Vasilievna,  calmly,  without  betraying  the 
slightest  excitement  in  her  pale,  bloodless  face. 

No  doubt  now  remained  in  the  mind  of  nurse,  or  in 
the  minds  of  all  the  rest  of  the  household,  as  to  Fek- 
lusha's guilt.  The  criminal  was  led  away  and  locked 
up  in  a  lumber-room,  far  removed  from  all  the  other 
rooms. 

"  There  you  '11  sit,  you  wretch,  without  food  or 
drink,  until  you  confess ! "  said  nurse,  as  she  turned 
the  key  in  the  heavy  hanging  padlock.  Of  course 
this  affair  created  an  uproar  throughout  the  house. 
Every  one  of  the  servants  invented  some  pretext  for 
running  to  nurse  and  talking  over  the  interesting 


20  S6NYA  KOVAL^VSKY 

matter  with  her.  All  day  long  our  nursery  was  a 
regular  club  room. 

Feklusha  had  no  father,  and  her  mother  lived  in 
the  village,  but  came  to  the  manor  house  to  help  the 
laundress  wash  the  linen.  Naturally,  she  soon  heard 
of  what  had  happened,  and  ran  to  the  nursery,  ut- 
ering  loud  complaints  and  asseverations  that  her 
daughter  was  innocent.  But  nurse  soon  quieted  her 
down. 

"Don't  make  so  much  noise,  my  good  woman! 
Just  wait.  We  '11  soon  find  out  whither  your  daugh- 
ter carried  her  stolen  goods  ! "  she  said  to  her,  so 
sternly,  and  with  such  a  significant  look,  that  the 
poor  woman  was  frightened,  and  took  herself  off  to 
her  own  place. 

The  general  opinion  expressed  was  decidedly  un- 
favorable to  Feklusha.  "  If  she  carried  off  the  pre- 
serves, of  course  she  stole  the  other  things  also,"  said 
everybody.  Another  reason  why  the  general  indig- 
nation against  Feklusha  was  so  strong  lay  in  the  fact 
that  the  mysterious  and  repeated  thefts  had  weighed 
like  a  heavy  burden  over  the  whole  household  of 
servants  for  many  weeks.  Each  one  feared  that  he 
might  be  suspected ;  who  knows  ?  Hence,  the  dis- 
covery of  the  thief  was  a  relief  to  every  one. 

But  still  Feklusha  did  not  confess. 

Nurse  went  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  day 
to  see  to  her  prisoner,  but  the  latter  only  repeated  her 
assertion :  "  I  have  stolen  nothing.  God  will  punish 
Marya  Vasilievna  for  injuring  the  orphan." 

Toward  evening  mama  entered  the  nursery. 

"  Are  n't  you  too  severe  with  that  poor  girl,  nurse  ? 
How  could  you  leave  the  poor  child  all  day  without 
food  ? "  she  said  in  a  troubled  voice. 

But  nurse  would  not  hear  of  mercy. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  21 

"What  do  you  mean,  ma'am?  Have  mercy  on 
such  a  person !  Why,  she  came  near  bringing  honest 
folks  under  suspicion ! "  she  said,  with  such  convic- 
tion that  mama  could  hardly  make  up  her  mind  to 
insist,  and  went  away  without  having  obtained  any 
alleviation  of  the  fate  of  the  little  criminal. 

The  next  day  came;  still  Feklusha  had  not  con- 
fessed. Her  judges  began  to  feel  some  uneasiness; 
but  suddenly,  about  dinner  time,  nurse  came  to  our 
mother  with  a  triumphant  countenance. 

"  Our  bird  has  confessed,"  she  cried  joyfully. 

"Well,  and  where  are  the  stolen  things?"  asked 
mama  very  naturally. 

"  The  wicked  wretch  has  not  yet  confessed  what 
she  did  with  them,"  replied  nurse  in  a  troubled  tone. 
"  She  utters  all  sort  of  nonsense.  She  says  she  has 
forgotten.  But  wait,  perhaps  she  will  remember 
after  I  have  kept  her  locked  up  an  hour  or  two 
longer." 

In  fact,  toward  evening  Feklusha  made  full  con- 
fession, and  narrated  with  great  detail  that  she  had 
stolen  all  the  things  with  the  intention  of  selling  them 
somewhere  later  on;  but  as  no  convenient  oppor- 
tunity had  presented  itself,  she  had  hidden  them  for 
a  long  time  under  her  bed- felt  in  the  corner  of  the  lum- 
ber-room: but  when  she  perceived  that  the  things 
were  remembered  and  that  serious  search  was  being 
made  for  the  thief,  she  became  frightened,  and  began 
to  think  of  putting  them  back  in  their  places;  but 
afterward  she  was  afraid  to  do  that,  and,  instead, 
tied  all  the  things  up  in  a  bundle  in  her  apron,  and 
flung  them  into  the  deep  pond  beyond  our  farm. 

Every  one  was  so  anxious  for  some  explanation  of 
this  annoying  and  painful  affair  that  Feklusha's 
story  was  not  subjected  to  very  severe  criticism. 


22  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

When  their  grief  at  the  loss  of  their  property  was 
somewhat  assuaged,  every  one  was  content  with  this 
explanation. 

The  criminal  was  released  from  confinement,  and  a 
brief  bnt  just  sentence  was  pronounced  on  her.  It 
was  decided  that  she  should  be  well  whipped,  and 
then  sent  back  to  the  village  to  her  mother. 

In  spite  of  Feklusha's  tears  and  her  mother's  pro- 
tests, this  sentence  was  immediately  executed.  Then 
we  took  another  little  girl  into  the  nursery  in  Feklu- 
sha's place  to  run  the  errands.  Several  weeks  passed. 
The  usual  routine  of  the  household  was  gradually  re- 
established, and  every  one  had  begun  to  forget  what 
had  happened. 

But  one  evening,  when  the  house  had  become  quiet, 
and  nurse,  having  put  us  to  bed,  was  preparing  to 
retire  herself,  the  nursery  door  opened  softly,  and 
Alexandra,  the  laundress,  Feklusha's  mother,  made 
her  appearance.  She  alone  had  stood  out  obstinately 
against  the  plain  facts,  and  had  continued  without 
ceasing  to  assert  that  her  daughter  had  been  dis- 
graced without  cause.  She  and  nurse  had  already 
had  several  severe  quarrels  on  this  point,  until  nurse  at 
last  declined  to  discuss  the  matter,  and  forbade  her  to 
enter  the  nursery,  having  made  up  her  mind  that  it 
was  of  no  use — you  could  n't  reason  with  a  stupid 
woman. 

But  to-night  Alexandra  wore  such  a  strange  and 
significant  look  that  nurse  understood,  as  soon  as  she 
looked  at  her,  that  she  was  not  come  to  repeat  her 
customary  empty  complaints,  but  that  something 
new  and  important  had  taken  place. 

"  Look  here,  dear  nurse ;  see  what  sort  of  a  trick  I 
am  going  to  show  you,"  said  Alexandra  mysteriously, 
and  after  casting  a  scrutinizing  glance  around  the 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  23 

room,  and  having  convinced  herself  that  no  stranger 
was  present,  she  drew  forth  from  beneath  her  apron 
and  gave  to  nurse  our  favorite  rnother-of -pearl  pen- 
knife, the  very  one  which  had  been  among  the  stolen 
articles  supposed  to  have  been  thrown  into  the  pond 
by  Feklusha. 

At  the  sight  of  the  penknife,  nurse  threw  up  her 
hands. 

"  Where  did  you  find  it "? "  she  asked  with  curiosity. 

"  That 's  exactly  the  point — where  I  found  it,"  replied 
Alexandra  with  a  drawl.  She  remained  silent  several 
seconds,  evidently  enjoying  nurse's  confusion.  "  Our 
gardener,  Philip  Matvyeevitch,  gave  me  his  old  trou- 
sers to  mend.  I  found  this  knife  in  the  pocket," 
she  said  at  last  in  a  significant  tone. 

This  Philip  Matvyeevitch  was  a  German,  and  occu- 
pied one  of  the  highest  positions  in  the  ranks  of  our 
house-servants'  aristocracy.  He  received  quite  a  large 
salary,  was  unmarried,  and  although  to  an  impartial 
eye  he  seemed  merely  a  fat,  middle-aged,  rather  re- 
pulsive German,  with  reddish,  typical  square  jaws, 
he  was  regarded  as  a  beauty  by  our  female  servants. 

When  she  heard  this  strange  hint,  nurse  could  not 
at  first  understand  at  all. 

"But  where  could  Philip  Matvyeevitch  have  got 
hold  of  the  children's  penknife?"  she  asked  in  be- 
wilderment. "  Why,  he  never  enters  the  nursery,  you 
know.  Yes,  and  is  it  a  likely  thing  that  a  man  like 
Philip  Matvyeevitch  would  steal  the  children's  knife ! " 

Alexandra  gazed  at  nurse  for  several  moments  in 
silence,  with  a  long,  scornful  stare;  then  she  bent 
down  to  her  ear  and  uttered  a  few  sentences  in  which 
the  name  of  Marya  Vasilievna  was  frequently  repeated. 

A  glimmer  of  the  truth  began,  little  by  little,  to  make 
its  way  into  nurse's  brain. 


24  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

"  Te,  te,  te,  so  that 's  it ! "  she  exclaimed,  throwing 
up  her  hands.  "Ah,  you  meek  hypocrite;  ah,  you 
wretch;  well,  just  wait,  and  we  '11  show  you  up  in 
your  true  light,"  she  cried,  brimming  over  with  indig- 
nation. 

It  appeared,  as  we  were  told  later  on,  that  Alexan- 
dra had  long  cherished  suspicions  of  Marya  Vasilievna. 
She  had  observed  that  the  latter  was  carrying  on 
an  intrigue  with  the  gardener.  "  Well,  and  you  can 
judge  for  yourself,"  she  said  to  nurse,  "  whether  such 
a  fine  fellow  as  Philip  Matvyeevitch  would  love  such 
an  old  woman  for  nothing.  She  certainly  won  his 
good- will  with  gifts."  And  in  fact  she  soon  convinced 
herself  that  Marya  Vasilievna  was  in  the  habit  of  giv- 
ing him  presents  and  money.  Where  did  she  get 
them  ?  So  she  instituted  a  regular  system  of  espion- 
age on  the  unsuspecting  Marya  Vasilievna.  This  pen- 
knife was  merely  the  last  link  in  the  long  chain  of 
evidence. 

This  affair  turned  out  interesting  and  absorbing  to 
a  degree  which  no  one  could  have  foreseen.  There 
suddenly  awoke  in  nurse  that  passionate  instinct  of 
the  detective  which  so  often  lies  slumbering  in  the 
souls  of  old  women,  and  instigates  them  to  fling 
themselves  with  fury  into  the  unraveling  of  any 
tangled  affair,  even  though  it  does  not  concern  them 
in  the  least.  In  the  present  case,  nurse  was  encou- 
raged in  her  eagerness  by  the  fact  that  she  felt  guilty 
of  a  great  sin  toward  Feklusha,  and  was  burning  with 
the  desire  to  expiate  it  as  speedily  as  possible.  Con- 
sequently an  offensive  and  defensive  league  against 
Marya  Vasilievna  was  formed  between  her  and 
Alexandra. 

As  both  women  were  already  morally  convinced  to 
the  last  degree  of  the  woman's  guilt,  they  decided  on 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  25 

extreme  measures — to  get  possession  of  her  keys,  and 
to  open  her  trunk  at  a  favorable  opportunity,  when 
she  was  absent  from  the  house. 

No  sooner  thought  than  done.  Alas,  it  appeared 
that  they  were  perfectly  correct  in  their  assumptions. 
The  contents  of  the  trunk  fully  confirmed  their  sus- 
picions, and  proved  in  the  most  undoubted  manner 
that  the  unhappy  Marya  Vasilievna  was  guilty  of  all 
the  petty  thefts  which  had  created  such  an  uproar  in 
the  immediate  past. 

"What  a  wretch!  Of  course  she  gave  the  pre- 
serves to  poor  Feklusha  in  order  to  divert  attention, 
and  cast  all  the  suspicion  on  her.  Ugh !  the  impious 
creature !  She  even  did  not  spare  a  little  child,"  said 
nurse  with  horror  and  disgust,  quite  forgetting  the 
part  which  she  herself  had  played  in  the  whole  affair, 
and  how  by  her  cruelty  she  had  forced  poor  Feklusha 
to  testify  falsely  against  herself. 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  the  wrath  of  all  the  servants, 
and  of  the  household  in  general,  when  the  terrible 
truth  was  brought  to  light  and  made  known  to  every 
one. 

At  first,  in  the  heat  of  his  wrath,  my  father  threat- 
ened to  send  for  the  police  and  put  Marya  Vasilievna 
in  prison;  but  in  view  of  the  fact  that  she  was 
already  advanced  in  age,  and  a  sickly  woman,  and  had 
lived  so  long  in  our  house,  he  soon  became  pacified, 
and  decided  merely  to  deprive  her  of  her  place  and 
send  her  back  to  Petersburg. 

It  would  seem  as  if  Marya  Vasilievna  ought  to  have 
been  satisfied  with  this  sentence.  She  was  such  a 
clever  seamstress  that  there  was  no  danger  of  her  be- 
ing left  without  bread  in  Petersburg.  And  what  sort 
of  a  position  awaited  her  in  our  household  after  such 
a  scandal?  All  the  other  servants  had  previously 


26  SONYA 

envied  her,  and  hated  her  for  her  pride  and  arrogance. 
She  knew  it,  and  knew  also  how  bitterly  she  would  now 
be  compelled  to  expiate  her  former  grandeur.  Never- 
theless, strange  as  it  may  seem,  she  not  only  did  not 
rejoice  at  my  father's  decision,  but  on  the  contrary 
began  to  pray  for  forgiveness.  Some  cat-like  attach- 
ment to  our  house,  to  the  place  among  us  which  she 
had  won  for  herself,  made  its  voice  heard  in  her. 

"I  have  not  long  to  live;  I  feel  that  I  shall  die 
soon.  How  am  I  to  drag  myself  around  with  stran- 
gers just  before  my  death  ? "  she  said. 

"But  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  nurse  ex- 
plained to  me,  as  we  recalled  the  story  many  years 
afterward,  when  I  was  grown  up.  "She  simply 
could  n't  leave  us  as  long  as  Philip  Matvyeevitch  re- 
mained, and  she  knew  that  if  she  once  went  away  she 
would  never  see  him  again.  In  any  case,  as  it  was 
difficult  to  find  such  a  good  gardener,  and  the  garden 
and  farm  could  not  be  left  at  the  mercy  of  fate,  it 
was  decided  to  keep  him  with  us  for  a  time  at  least." 

I  do  not  know  whether  nurse  was  right  as  to  the 
causes  which  made  Marya  Vasilievna  cling  so  obsti- 
nately to  her  place  in  our  house ;  but  at  any  rate,  on 
the  day  appointed  for  her  departure,  she  came  and 
threw  herself  at  my  father's  feet. 

"  Let  me  rather  stay  with  you  without  wages,  pun- 
ish me  like  a  serf,  only  do  not  drive  me  from  you," 
she  pleaded,  sobbing. 

Such  attachment  to  our  house  touched  my  father ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  afraid  that  if  he  for- 
gave Marya  Vasilievna  it  would  exert  a  demoralizing 
influence  on  the  other  servants.  He  was  in  a  very 
difficult  dilemma  as  to  what  he  ought  to  do  ;  but  all 
at  once  the  following  expedient  occurred  to  him. 

"  Listen,"  he  said  to  her.     "  Although  theft  is  a 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  27 

great  sin,  I  might  forgive  you  if  your  fault  consisted 
only  of  theft.  But  an  innocent  little  girl  has  suf- 
fered on  your  account.  Reflect  that,  because  of  your 
sin,  Feklusha  has  been  subjected  to  public  disgrace ; 
she  has  been  flogged.  On  her  account  I  cannot  par- 
don you.  If  you  insist  on  remaining  with  us,  I  can 
consent  to  it  only  on  condition  that  you  beg  Feklu- 
sha's  pardon,  and  kiss  her  hand  in  the  presence  of  all 
the  servants.  If  you  will  agree  to  this,  then  you  may 
remain,  and  God  be  with  you  ! " 

No  one  expected  that  Marya  Vasilievna  would 
agree  to  such  a  condition.  How  was  she,  such  a 
haughty  creature,  to  accuse  herself  publicly  before  a 
little  serf  girl,  and  kiss  her  hand !  But,  to  the  uni- 
versal amazement,  Marya  Vasilievna  did  agree  to  it. 

An  hour  after  this  decision  all  the  house-servants 
were  assembled  in  the  ante-room  of  our  house  to  look 
on  at  a  curious  spectacle,  Marya  Vasilievna  kissing 
Feklusha's  hand.  My  father  had  stipulated  that  this 
should  take  place  in  solemn  and  public  fashion. 

A  large  crowd  assembled.  Every  one  wished  to 
see.  The  heads  of  the  household  were  present  also, 
and  we  children  begged  permission  to  look  on. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  scene  which  followed.  Fek- 
lusha, confused  by  the  honor  which  had  so  unex- 
pectedly fallen  to  her  lot,  and  also  fearing,  probably, 
that  Marya  Vasilievna  would  take  revenge  later  on 
for  her  enforced  humiliation,  came  to  her  master  and 
began  to  entreat  that  she  and  Marya  Vasilievna 
might  be  excused  from  the  handkissing. 

"I  forgive  her  without  that,"  she  said,  almost  in 
tears. 

But  papa,  who  had  screwed  himself  up  to  a  lofty 
pitch,  and  had  convinced  himself  that  he  was  acting 
in  accordance  with  the  demands  of  strict  justice,  only 


28  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

shouted  at  her :  •'  Be  off  with  you,  you  fool,  and  don't 
meddle  with  what  does  not  concern  you !  This  is  not 
being  done  for  your  sake.  If  I,  your  master,  had 
sinned  against  you  in  this  manner,  do  you  under- 
stand, it  would  be  my  duty  to  kiss  your  hand.  You 
don't  understand!  "Well,  then,  hold  your  tongue, 
and  don't  try  to  dissuade  me  ! " 

The  terrified  Feklusha  dared  make  no  further  re- 
ply, and,  all  trembling  with  fear,  she  went  and  took 
her  place,  awaiting  her  fate  like  a  criminal. 

Marya  Vasilievna,  white  as  a  sheet,  passed  through 
the  crowd,  which  made  way  before  her.  She  walked 
mechanically,  as  if  in  a  dream,  but  her  face  was  so  set 
and  vicious  that  she  was  alarming  to  look  at.  Her 
lips  were  convulsively  closed,  and  bloodless.  She  ap- 
proached quite  close  to  Feklusha.  "  Forgive  me  !  " 
burst  from  her  mouth,  in  a  sort  of  suffering  scream. 
She  grasped  Feklusha's  hand,  and  raised  it  to  her 
lips  so  abruptly,  and  with  an  expression  of  such 
hatred,  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  on  the  point  of 
biting  it.  But  a  spasm  suddenly  swept  over  her  face, 
froth  made  its  appearance  round  her  mouth.  She 
fell  to  the  floor,  giving  utterance  to  piercing,  unnat- 
ural shrieks,  her  whole  body  writhing  in  convulsions. 

It  was  afterward  discovered  that  she  had  previ- 
ously been  subject  to  hysterical  attacks,  but  she  had 
carefully  concealed  the  fact  from  her  employers,  fear- 
ing that  they  would  not  keep  her  if  they  knew  about 
them.  Those  of  the  servants  who  had  come  to  know 
of  her  disease  had  not  betrayed  her,  out  of  class 
spirit. 

I  cannot  reproduce  the  impression  which  her  present 
attack  called  forth.  Of  course  we  children  were  has- 
tily led  away,  and  we  were  so  thoroughly  frightened 
that  we  ourselves  were  on  the  verge  of  hysterics. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  29 

But  the  point  which  made  the  most  vivid  impres- 
sion on  my  mind  was  the  sudden  change  which  took 
place  after  this  in  the  frame  of  mind  of  all  our  house- 
servants.  Up  to  that  time  they  had  all  borne  them- 
selves toward  Marya  Vasilievna  with  malice  and  ha- 
tred. Her  action  had  seemed  so  vile  and  black, 
that  every  one  felt  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  showing  her 
how  they  despised  her,  inventing  some  means  of  vex- 
ing her.  Now,  all  this  underwent  a  sudden  altera- 
tion. She  all  at  once  appeared  in  the  light  of  a  suf- 
ferer, of  a  victim,  and  the  general  sympathy  was 
transferred  to  her  side.  The  servants  even  got  up  a 
private  protest  against  my  father  for  the  unnecessary 
severity  of  his  sentence. 

"Of  course  she  was  guilty,"  said  the  other  maids 
in  an  undertone,  when  they  assembled  in  our  nursery 
for  consultation  with  nurse,  as  was  customary  after 
every  important  event  which  occurred  in  our  house. 
"Well  and  good.  The  general  might  have  scolded 
her  himself,  the  mistress  might  have  punished  her,  as 
is  the  way  in  other  houses.  All  that  is  not  so  insult- 
ing. It  can  be  endured.  But  lo,  and  behold !  what 
sort  of  a  thing  has  he  suddenly  invented  ?  To  make 
her  kiss  the  hand  of  such  a  cricket,  such  a  dirty- 
nosed  person  as  that  Feklusha,  in  the  sight  of  every- 
body !  Who  could  endure  such  disgrace  ? " 

Marya  Vasilievna  did  not  come  to  herself  for  a 
long  time.  One  convulsion  followed  another  for  the 
space  of  several  hours.  She  would  look  about  her, 
come  to  herself,  then  suddenly  begin  to  fling  herself 
about  again,  and  scream.  We  had  to  send  to  town 
for  the  doctor. 

Pity  for  the  sufferer  increased  every  moment,  and 
discontent  with  the  master  and  mistress  grew  in  pro- 
portion. I  remember  that  mama  came  to  the  nursery 


30  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  perceiving  that  nurse 
was  carefully  and  anxiously  making  tea  at  an  entirely 
unfitting  hour,  she  asked  her,  in  perfect  innocence : 
"  For  whom  is  this,  nurse  ?  " 

"For  Marya  Vasilievna,  of  course.  Why?  Is  it 
proper  in  your  opinion,  to  leave  her  without  tea  in 
her  illness  ?  We  servants  have  Christian  souls !  "  re- 
plied nurse,  in  so  harsh  and  exasperated  a  tone,  that 
mama  was  quite  confused,  and  made  haste  to  depart. 

And  a  few  hours  earlier  this  very  same  nurse 
would  have  been  capable  of  beating  Marya  Vasilievna 
half  to  death  had  she  been  permitted. 

A  few  days  later  Marya  Vasilievna  recovered,  to 
the  great  joy  of  my  parents,  and  went  on  living  in 
our  house  as  before.  No  further  mention  was  made 
of  what  had  happened.  I  believe  that  even  among 
the  servants  there  was  not  one  who  reproached  her 
with  the  past. 

So  far  as  I  was  concerned,  from  that  day  forth  I 
began  to  feel  for  her  a  sort  of  strange  pity,  mingled 
with  instinctive  horror.  I  did  not  run  to  her  room 
as  formerly.  When  I  met  her  in  the  corridor  I  in- 
voluntarily pressed  close  to  the  wall,  and  tried  not  to 
look  at  her.  It  always  seemed  to  me  as  if  she  were 
on  the  point  of  falling  on  the  floor,  and  beginning  to 
writhe  and  shriek. 

Marya  Vasilievna  must  have  observed  my  estrange- 
ment, and  she  endeavored  in  various  ways  to  regain 
my  former  liking.  I  remember  that  she  invented 
some  little  surprise  for  me  nearly  every  day.  She 
would  bring  me  colored  scraps,  or  make  a  new  gown 
for  my  doll ;  but  all  this  did  no  good.  My  feeling  of 
secret  terror  of  her  did  not  pass  off,  and  I  ran  away 
as  soon  as  I  was  left  alone  with  her. 

However,  I  soon  came  under  the  authority  of  my 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  31 

new  governess,  who  put  an  end  to  intimacy  of  all 
sorts  with  the  servants. 

But  I  vividly  recall  the  following  scene.  I  was 
seven  or  eight  years  old  by  this  time.  One  evening 
—  it  was  the  vigil  of  some  festival;  the  Annunciation, 
I  think — I  was  running  along  the  corridor,  past 
Marya  Vasilievna's  room.  All  at  once  she  peered  out 
of  her  door  and  called  me.  "Bdryslinya — hey,  miss  ! 
Come  in  and  see  what  a  pretty  dough  lark  I  have 
baked  for  you ! "  * 

A  semi-darkness  reigned  in  the  long  corridor,  and 
there  was  no  one  in  it  except  Marya  Vasilievna  and 
myself.  As  I  glanced  at  her  pale  face,  with  its  enor- 
mous black  eyes,  I  was  suddenly  seized  with  such 
terror  that,  instead  of  answering,  I  flew  headlong 
away  from  her. 

"  What,  little  miss,  't  is  evident  that  you  have  en- 
tirely ceased  to  love  me ;  that  you  despise  me ! "  she 
called  after  me. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  words  as  the  tone  in  which 
she  uttered  them,  which  struck  me;  but  I  did  not 
halt,  and  continued  to  flee.  But  when  I  turned  into 
the  schoolroom,  and  recovered  from  my  terror,  I 
could  not  forget  her  deep,  sorrowful  voice.  Try  as  I 
might,  by  playfulness  and  an  augmentation  of  mis- 
chief, to  dull  that  unpleasant,  gnawing  feeling  which 
was  stirring  in  my  heart,  it  would  not  cease.  I  could 
not  get  Marya  Vasilievna  out  of  my  head,  and,  as  is 
always  the  case  with  a  person  whom  you  have  of- 
fended, she  suddenly  began  to  seem  to  me  extremely 
charming,  and  I  began  to  feel  drawn  to  her. 

1  The  larks  are  supposed  to  fly  back  for  the  summer  at  the 
beginning  of  the  spring,  according  to  the  almanac,  and  the 
shops  are  full  of  rolls  and  bread  baked  in  the  form  of  birds. — 
Trans. 


32  S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

I  could  not  make  up  ray  mind  to  relate  to  my  gov- 
erness what  had  taken  place.  Children  always  be- 
come confused  when  they  talk  of  their  feelings. 
Moreover,  we  were  forbidden  to  be  intimate  with  the 
servants,  and  I  knew  that  the  governess  still  praised 
me.  I  also  knew  by  instinct  that  she  praised  me 
without  cause.  After  evening  tea,  when  bedtime 
came,  instead  of  going  straight  to  my  bed-room,  I  de- 
termined to  run  to  Marya  Vasilievna.  This  was  a  sort 
of  sacrifice  on  my  part,  because  I  had  to  run  through 
the  long,  deserted  corridor,  which  was  now  entirely 
dark,  which  I  always  feared  and  avoided  in  the  even- 
ing. But  now  I  developed  a  desperate  courage.  I 
ran  without  stopping  to  take  breath,  and  rushed  into 
her  room  like  a  hurricane,  panting. 

Marya  Vasilievna  had  already  finished  her  supper. 
Because  of  the  festival  she  was  not  at  work,  but  was 
sitting  at  a  table  covered  with  a  clean,  white  cloth, 
and  reading  a  little  book  on  some  pious  subject.  The 
shrine  lamp  flickered  in  front  of  the  holy  images. 
After  the  dark,  dreadful  corridor,  her  little  chamber 
seemed  to  me  unusually  light  and  comfortable,  and 
she  herself  very  kind  and  good. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-night  to  you,  dear,  dear 
Marya  Vasilievna ! "  I  cried  in  one  breath ;  but  be- 
fore I  had  finished  my  sentence,  she  had  seized  me 
and  begun  to  cover  me  with  kisses.  She  kissed  me 
so  vehemently  and  so  long,  that  I  began  to  feel  em- 
barrassed, and  to  consider  how  I  might  get  away 
from  her  without  offending  her  again,  when  a  fit  of 
her  terrible  coughing  forced  her  to  release  me  from 
her  embrace. 

This  terrible  cough  persecuted  her  more  and  more. 
"  I  barked  like  a  dog  all  last  night,"  she  would  say  of 
herself,  with  a  sort  of  grim  irony. 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  33 

She  became  paler  and  more  reserved  with  every 
passing  day,  but  she  persistently  refused  all  my  moth- 
er's suggestions  that  she  would  apply  to  the  doc- 
tor for  advice;  she  even  exhibited  a  sort  of  angry 
agitation  if  any  one  spoke  to  her  about  her  illness. 

Thus  she  lingered  on  for  two  or  three  years,  keep- 
ing her  feet  almost  to  the  very  last ;  she  only  took  to 
her  bed  two  or  three  days  before  her  death,  and  they 
said  that  her  death  agony  was  very  painful. 

By  my  father's  orders,  a  very  gorgeous  funeral 
(according  to  village  ideas)  was  provided  for  her. 
Not  only  all  the  servants,  but  all  our  family,  includ- 
ing the  master  himself,  were  present  at  it.  Feklusha 
also  walked  behind  the  coffin  and  sobbed  violently. 
Philip  Matvyeevitch  was  the  only  one  who  was  not 
present  at  her  funeral ;  without  waiting  for  her  death 
he  had  left  us  several  months  previously,  and  betaken 
himself  to  a  more  lucrative  situation  somewhere  in 
the  vicinity  of  Dunaburg. 


Ill 


WITH  our  removal  to  the  country  everything  in 
our  house  underwent  a  great  change,  and  the 
existence  of  my  parents,  which  had  been  hitherto  gay 
and  free  from  care,  suddenly  assumed  a  more  serious 
turn. 

Up  to  that  time  our  father  had  paid  very  little  at- 
tention to  us,  because  he  regarded  the  rearing  of 
children  as  the  business  of  women,  not  of  men.  He 
took  a  little  more  notice  of  Aniuta  than  of  his  other 
children,  because  she  was  older  and  very  amusing. 
He  loved  to  pet  her,  on  occasion,  and  in  winter  he 
sometimes  took  her  to  ride  with  him  in  his  little 
sledge,  and  he  was  fond  of  bragging  about  her  to  his 
guests.  When  her  mischievousness  transgressed  all 
bounds,  and  positively  drove  the  whole  household  out 
of  patience,  complaints  about  her  were  sometimes 
made  to  my  father,  but  he  usually  turned  the  whole 
matter  into  a  jest,  and  she  understood  perfectly  well 
that  although  he  sometimes  for  the  sake  of  appear- 
ances assumed  an  aspect  of  severity,  in  reality  he  was 
ready  to  laugh  at  her  pranks. 

As  for  us  younger  children,  our  father's  relations 
to  us  were  confined  to  his  asking  nurse,  when  he  hap- 
pened to  meet  us,  whether  we  were  well,  pinching 
our  cheeks  in  a  kindly  way  to  convince  himself  that 
they  were  plump,  and  sometimes  taking  us  in  his 

34 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  35 

hands  and  tossing  us  up  in  the  air.  On  days  of  high 
festival,  when  father  was  going  off  somewhere  for  of- 
ficial presentation,  and  was  dressed  in  his  full  parade 
uniform,  with  his  orders  and  stars,  we  were  sum- 
moned to  the  drawing-room  "to  admire  papa  on 
parade,"  and  this  spectacle  afforded  us  remarkable 
satisfaction;  we  danced  around  him,  clapping  our 
hands  with  delight  at  the  sight  of  his  glittering  epau- 
lets and  orders. 

But  on  our  arrival  in  the  country  these  benign  rela- 
tions which  had  hitherto  existed  between  father  and 
us  suddenly  underwent  a  change.  As  not  unfre- 
quently  happens  in  Russian  families,  father  suddenly 
made  the  unexpected  discovery  that  his  children  were 
not  such  models,  such  beautifully  educated  children, 
as  he  had  supposed. 

The  beginning  of  it  all  was  apparently  that  my 
sister  and  I  ran  away  from  home  one  day,  got  lost, 
and  were  missing  for  an  entire  day,  and  when  they 
found  us  toward  evening,  we  had  managed  to  over- 
eat ourselves  on  herb-Paris  berries,  and  were  sick  for 
several  days  afterward. 

This  occurrence  demonstrated  that  the  oversight 
over  us  was  very  bad.  This  first  discovery  was  fol- 
lowed by  others;  one  revelation  followed  another. 
Up  to  that  time  every  one  had  stoutly  asserted  that 
my  sister  was  a  remarkable,  almost  a  phenomenal, 
child — clever  and  accomplished  beyond  her  age.  But 
now  it  suddenly  appeared  that  not  only  was  she 
dreadfully  spoiled,  but  ignorant  to  the  last  degree 
for  a  twelve-year  old  girl,  and  that  she  did  not  even 
know  how  to  write  correctly  in  Russian. 

What  was  still  worse,  something  was  discovered 
about  our  French  governess,  so  bad  that  no  one  was 
permitted  to  speak  of  it  before  us  children. 


36  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

I  have  a  confused  remembrance  of  those  troubled 
days,  which  followed  our  escapade,  as  a  sort  of  pain- 
ful domestic  calamity.  All  day  long  there  were  tears, 
cries,  and  uproar  in  the  nursery.  Everybody  quar- 
reled with  everybody  else,  and  everybody  caught  it, 
whether  rightly  or  wrongly.  Papa  was  in  a  rage, 
mama  was  weeping,  nurse  roaring,  the  French- 
woman wringing  her  hands  and  packing  up  her  be- 
longings. My  sister  and  I  became  meek  and  quiet, 
and  dared  not  utter  a  sound,  because  every  one  now 
vented  his  or  her  wrath  on  us,  and  the  slightest  fault 
was  reckoned  up  against  us  as  a  heavy  crime.  Never- 
theless we  watched  our  elders  quarreling  with  curios- 
ity, and  even  with  a  certain  childish  malicious  delight, 
and  waited  "  to  see  how  it  would  all  end." 

Father,  who  did  not  like  half  measures,  decided 
upon  a  radical  reform  in  the  system  of  our  education. 
The  Frenchwoman  was  dismissed,  nurse  was  released 
from  the  nursery,  and  set  to  look  after  the  linen,  and 
two  new  persons  were  taken  into  the  house  —  a 
Polish  tutor  and  an  English  governess. 

The  tutor  was  a  quiet,  learned  man,  who  gave 
splendid  lessons,  but  who  had  very  little  real  influence 
on  my  education.  On  the  other  hand,  the  governess 
introduced  an  entirely  new  element  into  our  family. 

Although  she  had  been  brought  up  in  Russia,  and 
spoke  Russian,  she  had  retained  in  full  the  typical 
peculiarities  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  —  straightfor- 
wardness, endurance,  and  a  knowledge  how  to  carry 
out  any  undertaking  to  the  end.  These  qualities 
gave  her  a  great  advantage  over  the  rest  of  the  house- 
hold, all  of  whom  were  distinguished  by  precisely  the 
opposite  traits,  and  they  explain  the  influence  which 
she  acquired  in  our  house. 

When  she  came  to  us  all  her  efforts  were  directed 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  37 

toward  arranging  out  of  our  children's  room  a  sort 
of  English  nursery,  in  which  she  could  rear  exemplary 
English  misses.  But  God  knows  how  hard  it  was  to 
establish  a  nursery  of  English  misses  in  the  house  of 
a  Russian  landed  proprietor,  where  the  ages  and  gen- 
erations had  all  been  imbued  with  the  habits  of  manor 
lords,  inaccuracy,  and  lack  of  orderliness.  Neverthe- 
less, thanks  to  her  remarkable  persistence,  she  at- 
tained her  object  to  a  certain  extent. 

It  is  true  that  she  never  succeeded  in  getting  the 
better  of  my  sister,  who  had  been  accustomed  up  to 
that  time  to  perfect  freedom.  At  last,  when  Aniuta 
had  passed  her  fifteenth  birthday,  she  made  her  final 
escape  from  authority.  The  formal  act  by  which  her 
freedom  from  the  tutelage  of  the  governess  was 
expressed  was  the  removal  of  her  bed  from  the  nur- 
sery to  a  room  next  to  mama's  bedroom.  From 
that  day  forth  Aniuta  began  to  consider  herself  a 
grown-up  young  lady,  and  the  governess  made  haste 
to  announce,  on  every  convenient  occasion,  in  a 
touchy  sort  of  way,  that  she  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Aniuta's  conduct — that  she  washed  her  hands  of  her. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  she  concentrated  all  her 
efforts  with  great  vigor  upon  me,  isolating  me  from 
all  the  members  of  the  household  and  hedging  me 
about,  as  though  guarding  me  from  an  epidemic, 
against  the  influence  of  my  older  sister.  This  yearn- 
ing for  separation  on  her  part  was  favored  by  the 
dimensions  and  construction  of  our  country  house,  in 
which  two  or  three  families  could  have  lived  simul- 
taneously and  remained  entire  strangers  to  each 
other. 

Almost  the  whole  of  the  lower  story,  with  the 
exception  of  several  rooms  for  servants  and  for  cas- 
ual guests,  was  given  over  to  the  governess  and  to 

3* 


38  S6NYA  KOVAKfiVSKY 

me.  The  upper  story,  with  the  state  apartments, 
belonged  to  mama  and  Aniuta.  Fedya  and  his 
tutor  were  lodged  in  the  wing,  and  papa's  cabinet 
formed  the  foundation  of  a  three-story  tower,  and 
stood  quite  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  dwelling.  Thus 
the  varied  elements  of  which  our  family  consisted 
had  each  their  independent  domains,  and  could  carry 
out  their  separate  lines  of  action  without  incommod- 
ing each  other,  meeting  only  for  dinner  and  for 
evening  tea. 


IV 

LIFE  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

wall  clock  in  the  school-room  struck  seven. 
These  seven  strokes  reached  my  consciousness 
through  my  slumber,  and  begat  in  me  the  sad  convic- 
tion that  Dunyasha,  the  maid,  will  be  coming  now  at 
once  to  wake  me;  but  I  am  still  sleeping  so  sweetly 
that  I  try  to  convince  myself  that  I  have  only 
imagined  those  seven  repulsive  strokes.  Turning  on 
the  other  side  and  drawing  the  coverlet  closer  about 
me,  I  hasten  to  enjoy  the  sweet,  brief  bliss  afforded  by 
the  last  little  moments  of  sleep  which,  as  I  well  know, 
will  soon  come  to  an  end. 

And,  in  fact,  the  door  creaks,  and  Dunyasha's  heavy 
tread  becomes  audible  as  she  enters  the  room  with  a 
load  of  wood.  Then  comes  a  series  of  familiar  sounds, 
which  are  repeated  every  morning:  the  noise  of  the 
armful  of  wood  flung  heavily  on  the  floor,  the  snap- 
ping of  matches,  the  crackling  of  the  pitch-knot,  the 
rushing  and  roaring  of  the  flames — all  these  custom- 
ary sounds  reach  my  hearing  through  my  dreams, 
and  augment  in  me  the  sensation  of  agreeable  indo- 
lence and  unwillingness  to  desert  my  warm  little  bed. 
"Another  minute,  just  another  little  minute's  sleep ! " 
But  the  crackling  of  the  flame  in  the  stove  grows 
louder  and  more  even,  and  turns  into  a  measured, 
regular  hum. 

"'T  is  time  to  get  up,  bdryshyna!"  (little  mistress), 

39 


40  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

rings  out  in  my  very  ear,  and  Dunyasha,  with  pitiless 
hand,  drags  off  the  coverlet. 

Day  is  but  just  breaking  out  of  doors,  and  the  first 
pale  rays  of  the  cold  winter  morning,  mingling  with 
the  yellowish  light  of  the  stearin  candle,  impart  to 
everything  a  sort  of  dead,  unnatural  look.  Is  there 
anything  more  disagreeable  in  the  world  than  getting 
up  by  candlelight?  I  sit  up  in  bed,  squatted  on  my 
heels,  and  begin  mechanically  to  dress  myself;  but 
my  eyes  involuntarily  close  again,  and  my  uplifted 
hand,  which  grasps  a  stocking,  becomes  rigid  in  that 
position. 

Behind  the  screen  where  the  governess  sleeps,  the 
sound  of  splashing  water  is  already  audible,  accom- 
panied by  snorting  and  vigorous  rubbing. 

"  Don't  dawdle,  Sonya ;  if  you  are  not  ready  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  you  will  bear  the  ticket  'lazy'  on 
your  back  during  luncheon,"  rings  out  the  threaten- 
ing voice  of  my  governess. 

This  threat  is  no  jest.  Corporeal  punishment  has 
been  banished  from  our  educational  system,  but  my 
governess  has  taken  it  into  her  head  to  replace  it  by 
other  means  of  intimidation.  If  I  am  guilty  of  any- 
thing, she  pins  upon  my  back  a  paper  on  which  my 
fault  is  stated  in  large  letters,  and  with  this  decora- 
tion I  must  present  myself  at  table.  I  fear  this 
chastisement  like  death ;  hence  the  governess's  threat 
has  the  power  to  banish  my  sleep  instantaneously.  I 
immediately  leap  from  the  bed.  At  the  wash-stand 
the  maid  is  already  awaiting  me,  with  an  uplifted  jug 
in  one  hand  and  with  a  shaggy  towel  in  the  other.  Cold 
water  is  poured  over  me  every  morning,  after  the  Eng- 
lish fashion.  One  second  of  sharp,  breath -destroy- 
ing cold,  then  boiling  water  seems  to  flow  through  my 
veins,  and  then  a  wonderfully  agreeable  sensation  of 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  41 

remarkable  vitality  and  elasticity  is  left  behind  all 
over  my  body. 

But  now  it  is  quite  light.  We  go  to  the  dining- 
room.  On  the  table  puffs  the  samovar,  the  wood  in 
the  stove  is  crackling,  and  the  bright  flame  is  reflected 
and  multiplied  in  the  large  frozen  windows. 

Not  a  trace  of  my  sleepiness  remains.  On  the  con- 
trary I  feel  very  alert,  most  unaccountably  joyful  at 
heart;  as  if  I  wanted  noise,  laughter,  merriment. 
Ah,  if  I  only  had  a  companion,  a  child  of  my  own 
age,  with  whom  I  could  frolic  and  romp,  in  whom  the 
superabundance  of  healthy  young  life  bubbled  up  like 
a  spring,  as  it  did  in  me.  But  I  have  no  such  com- 
panion, and  I  drink  my  tea  alone  with  my  governess, 
as  the  other  members  of  the  family,  including  my 
brother  and  my  sister,  rise  much  later.  I  feel  such 
an  uncontrollable  desire  to  make  merry  and  laugh  over 
something  or  other  that  I  make  a  feeble  attempt  at 
sprightliness  with  the  governess.  Unfortunately  she 
is  not  in  a  good  humor  to-day,  which  is  often  the  case 
with  her  in  the  morning,  as  she  suffers  from  liver 
disease;  consequently  she  considers  it  her  duty  to 
repress  my  ill-timed  burst  of  mirth,  with  the  remark 
that  this  is  the  time  for  lessons  and  not  for  laughter. 

My  day  always  begins  with  a  music  lesson.  The 
temperature  in  the  big  hall  up-stairs  where  the  piano 
stands  is  very  low,  so  that  my  fingers  become  stiff  and 
swollen,  and  my  nails  stand  out  against  the  back- 
ground they  furnish  like  blue  blotches. 

An  hour  and  a  half  of  scales  and  exercises,  accom- 
panied by  the  monotonous  beats  of  a  small  stick  with 
which  my  governess  indicates  the  time,  chills  to  a 
considerable  degree  that  sensation  of  joy  in  mere  liv- 
ing with  which  I  began  my  day.  Other  lessons  follow 
the  music  lesson.  I  had  enjoyed  my  lessons  very 


42  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

much  while  my  sister  was  studying  also ;  moreover,  I 
had  been  such  a  little  thing  then  that  they  did  not 
teach  me  seriously;  but  I  entreated  permission  to  be 
present  at  my  sister's  lessons,  and  listened  to  them 
with  so  much  attention  that  it  often  happened  that 
she,  a  big  fourteen -year-old  girl,  did  not  know  the 
appointed  lesson  the  next  time,  while  I,  a  chit  of  seven 
years,  remembered  it,  and  prompted  her  in  it  with 
triumph.  This  was  a  great  delight  to  me.  But  now 
when  my  sister  had  ceased  to  study,  and  entered 
into  the  rights  of  womanhood,  the  lessons  lost  half 
their  charm  for  me.  I  studied  with  considerable 
industry  it  is  true,  but  how  I  would  have  studied  had 
I  had  a  companion ! 

At  twelve  o'clock  comes  breakfast.  As  soon  as  she 
has  swallowed  her  last  morsel,  the  governess  betakes 
herself  to  the  window  to  inspect  the  state  of  the 
weather.  I  follow  her  with  a  trembling  heart,  be- 
cause this  is  a  very  important  question  to  me.  If  the 
thermometer  indicates  anything  above  10°  below  zero1, 
and  there  is  no  wind,  I  must  take  a  tiresome  walk  of 
an  hour  and  a  half  with  my  governess,  back  and  forth 
on  the  alley,  which  has  been  cleared  of  snow.  But  if, 
to  my  happiness,  the  cold  is  severe,  or  it  is  windy, 
the  governess  takes  herself  off  alone  for  the  walk, — in- 
evitable, in  her  opinion, —  and  sends  me  up-stairs  to 
play  ball  in  the  hall  by  way  of  exercise. 

I  am  not  particularly  fond  of  playing  ball.  I  am 
twelve  years  old  now.  I  consider  myself  already 
quite  grown-up,  and  it  is  rather  insulting  to  me  that 
the  governess  should  think  me  capable  of  being 
amused  by  such  a  childish  entertainment  as  playing 
ball ;  nevertheless,  I  hear  her  command  with  the 
greatest  satisfaction,  because  it  presages  an  hour 
and  a  half  of  freedom  for  me. 

i  Reaumur.     10°  above  zero,  Fahrenheit.— Trans. 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  43 

The  upper  story  is  the  special  domain  of  mama  and 
Aniuta ;  but  now  they  are  both  sitting  in  their  own 
chambers.  There  is  no  one  in  the  large  hall. 

I  run  several  times  around  the  hall,  chasing  my  ball 
before  me.  My  thoughts  wander  far  afield.  Like 
the  majority  of  children  who  grow  up  alone,  I  have 
already  managed  to  fabricate  for  myself  a  rich  world 
of  fancies  and  dreams,  whose  existence  is  not  even 
suspected  by  my  elders.  I  am  passionately  fond  of 
poetry.  The  very  form,  the  very  rhythm,  of  poetry 
afford  me  the  greatest  pleasure.  I  eagerly  devour  all 
the  scraps  from  the  Russian  poets  which  fall  under 
my  eye,  and  I  must  confess  that  the  more  stilted  the 
verses,  the  more  they  are  to  my  taste.  Zhuk6vsky's 
"Ballads"  were  for  a  long  time  the  only  specimens  of 
the  Russian  poets  which  were  known  to  me.  No  one 
in  our  house  took  any  particular  interest  in  this 
branch  of  literature,  and  although  we  had  a  fairly 
large  library,  it  consisted  chiefly  of  foreign  books.  It 
did  not  contain  the  writings  of  either  Pushkin,  Ler- 
montoff,  or  Nekrasoff.  I  could  not  wait  with  pa- 
tience for  the  day  when  Filonoff s  "  Compendium  of 
Russian  Literature"  should  be  purchased  for  us  at 
the  instigation  of  our  Russian  tutor.  This  was  a 
real  treasure-trove  for  me.  For  several  days  after- 
ward I  went  about  like  a  mad  creature  repeating 
under  my  breath  strophes  from  "  Mtzyri,"  or  from 
"The  Prisoner  of  the  Caucasus"1  until  the  governess 
threatened  to  take  the  precious  book  away  from  me. 

The  very  rhythm  of  verse  always  produced  upon  me 
such  an  effect  of  fascination,  that  from  the  age  of  five 
I  began  to  write  verses  myself.  But  my  governess 
did  not  approve  of  this  occupation.  She  had  formed 
in  her  own  mind  a  very  decided  opinion  of  the 
healthy,  normal  child,  who  was  bound  to  develop  into 
1  Both  "by  L£rmontoff. —  Trans. 


44  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

an  exemplary  English  miss,  and  the  composition  of 
verses  did  not  in  least  enter  into  this  opinion.  There- 
fore she  severely  persecuted  all  my  poetical  attempts. 
If,  to  my  misfortune,  there  fell  under  her  eye  a  scrap 
of  paper  scribbled  over  with  my  rhymes,  she  imme- 
diately pinned  it  to  my  shoulder,  and  then,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  my  brother  or  sister,  declaimed  my  unlucky 
composition,  distorting  and  mangling  it  horribly,  as 
a  matter  of  course. 

But  this  persecution  of  my  verses  did  no  good.  At 
the  age  of  twelve  I  was  profoundly  convinced  that 
I  was  destined  to  become  a  poet.  Out  of  fear  of  my 
governess,  I  decided  not  to  write  down  my  verses, 
but  I  composed  them  in  my  head,  like  the  ancient 
bards,  and  confided  them  to  my  ball.  As  I  ran 
through  the  hall,  chasing  it  before  me,  I  declaimed 
aloud  my  poetical  productions,  among  which  I  took 
pride  in  "  The  Bedouin's  Address  to  his  Horse,"  and 
"The  Sensations  of  the  Fisherman  as  he  Dives  for 
Pearls."  I  composed  in  my  head  a  long  poem  en- 
titled, "  The  Fountain  Jet,"  something  half  way  be- 
tween "  Undine  "  and  "  Mtzyri " ;  but  for  the  present 
only  ten  strophes  were  ready.  I  planned  to  have  one 
hundred  and  twenty. 

But  the  muse  is  capricious,  as  every  one  knows, 
and  poetical  inspiration  did  not  always  descend  upon 
me  at  the  exact  moment  when  I  was  ordered  to  play 
with  my  ball.  If  the  muse  did  not  appear  at  my  call, 
my  situation  became  dangerous,  for  temptation  sur- 
rounded me  on  all  sides.  The  library  adjoined  the 
hall,  and  beguiling  little  volumes  of  foreign  novels,  or 
numbers  of  Russian  magazines,  were  there  strewn 
about  on  all  the  tables  and  divans.  I  was  strictly 
forbidden  to  touch  them,  because  the  governess  was 
very  particular  about  the  reading  which  I  was  al- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  45 

lowed.  I  had  not  many  children's  books,  and  I  al- 
ready knew  most  of  them  by  heart.  The  governess 
never  permitted  me  to  read  any  book,  even  one  de- 
signed for  children,  without  having  previously  pe- 
rused it  herself;  and,  as  she  read  very  slowly,  and 
was  always  short  for  time,  I  found  myself,  so  to 
speak,  in  a  chronic  state  of  book-hunger  j  and  here, 
all  of  a  sudden,  what  riches  close  at  hand!  Well, 
how  was  it  possible  not  to  be  beguiled  f 

I  struggle  with  myself  for  a  few  minutes.  I  ap- 
proach some  little  book,  and  at  first  I  only  glance  at 
it.  I  turn  over  a  few  leaves,  read  a  few  lines,  then 
run  after  my  ball  again  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
But  little  by  little  the  desire  to  read  attracts  me. 
Perceiving  that  my  first  efforts  have  passed  off  suc- 
cessfully, I  forget  the  danger,  and  begin  eagerly  to 
devour  page  after  page.  It  makes  no  difference  that 
the  volume  of  the  novel  which  I  have  hit  upon  is  not 
the  first.  I  read  from  the  middle  with  quite  as  much 
interest,  and  supply  the  beginning  from  my  imagina- 
tion. From  time  to  time,  however,  I  exercise  the 
precaution  of  making  my  ball  execute  a  few  bounds, 
in  case  the  governess  should  return,  and  come  to  see 
what  I  am  doing,  that  she  may  hear  that  I  am  play- 
ing as  I  have  been  commanded. 

As  a  rule  my  trick  proves  successful.  I  hear  the 
governess's  steps  in  time,  as  she  ascends  the  staircase, 
and  manage  to  throw  the  book  aside  before  her  ar- 
rival, so  that  the  governess  remains  convinced  I  have 
been  amusing  myself  all  the  time  by  playing  ball  like 
a  good,  sweet-tempered  child.  Two  or  three  times 
during  my  childhood  it  happened  that  I  was  so  carried 
away  by  my  reading  that  I  observed  nothing  until 
the  governess  rose  up  before  me  as  if  through  the 
floor,  and  caught  me  in  the  very  act  of  transgressing. 


46  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

In  such  cases,  as  in  general  after  every  especially 
important  crime  on  my  part,  the  governess  had  re- 
course to  the  most  extreme  measures :  she  sent  me  to 
my  father  with  orders  to  relate  my  guilt  to  him  my- 
self. I  feared  this  more  than  all  other  punishments. 

In  reality  father  was  not  at  all  severe  with  us ;  but 
I  saw  him  rarely — only  at  dinner.  He  never  per- 
mitted himself  the  slightest  familiarity  with  us  ex- 
cept when  one  of  the  children  was  ill.  Then  he  was 
completely  changed. 

The  fear  of  losing  any  one  of  us  seemed  to  make 
quite  a  new  man  of  him.  Remarkable  tenderness 
and  softness  were  revealed  in  his  voice  and  manners ; 
no  one  understood  so  well  how  to  pet  us,  to  jest  with 
us,  as  he  did.  We  simply  adored  him  at  such  times, 
and  retained  the  memory  of  them  for  a  long  while. 
But  on  ordinary  occasions,  when  all  were  well,  he 
stuck  to  the  rule  that  "  a  man  must  be  severe,"  and 
therefore  was  very  sparing  of  his  caresses. 

He  loved  to  be  alone,  and  he  had  a  world  of  his 
own,  into  which  no  member  of  the  household  was 
admitted.  In  the  morning  he  went  off  on  a  round  of 
domestic  inspection,  either  alone  or  in  the  company 
of  the  steward ;  he  sat  in  his  study  almost  the  whole 
of  the  rest  of  the  day.  This  study,  which  lay  quite 
apart  from  the  other  rooms,  constituted  a  sort  of 
holy  of  holies  in  the  house ;  even  our  mother  never 
entered  it  without  knocking  first.  It  would  never  have 
entered  the  heads  of  us  children  to  appear  there  with- 
out an  invitation. 

Hence,  when  the  governess  used  to  say,  "  Go  to  your 
father;  make  your  boast  to  him  of  how  you  have 
been  behaving,"  I  felt  genuine  despair.  I  cried  and 
resisted,  but  the  governess  was  implacable,  and  tak- 
ing me  by  the  hand,  she  led  me,  or,  to  speak  more 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  47 

correctly,  she  dragged  me  through  the  long  suite  of 
rooms  to  the  door  of  the  study,  left  me  to  my  fate,  and 
went  away. 

Crying  was  no  longer  of  any  use;  moreover  the 
anteroom  adjoined  the  study,  and  there  I  could  see 
the  face  of  some  idle,  curious  lackey  watching  me 
with  interest. 

"  Evidently  the  young  mistress  has  been  naughty 
again,"  I  could  hear  behind  me  the  half  compassionate, 
half  jeering  voice  of  papa's  valet  Ilya. 

I  deigned  him  no  reply,  and  tried  to  look  as  if  there 
were  nothing  the  matter — as  if  I  were  going  to  papa 
by  my  own  wish.  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to 
go  back  to  the  school-room  without  having  complied 
with  the  governess's  orders.  That  would  have  been 
to  intensify  my  fault  by  open  disobedience ;  to  stand 
there  at  the  door,  a  mark  for  the  laughter  of  the 
lackey,  was  intolerable.  There  was  nothing  left 
for  me  to  do  but  to  knock  at  the  door,  and  bravely 
enter  to  meet  my  fate. 

I  knock,  but  very  softly.  Several  moments,  which 
seem  to  me  interminable,  elapse. 

"Knock  harder,  'bdryshnya;  papa  does  not  hear," 
remarks  that  intolerable  Ilya,  who  is  evidently  much 
interested  in  this  whole  affair. 

There  is  nothing  to  be  done;  I  knock  again. 

"Who  's  there?  Come  in,"  calls  father's  voice  at 
last  from  the  study. 

I  enter,  but  halt  in  the  semi-darkness  on  the  thres- 
hold. Father  sits  at  his  writing-table  with  his  back 
to  the  door,  and  does  not  see  me. 

"  Who  's  there  ?  What 's  wanted  ? "  he  cries  impa- 
tiently. 

"  It  is  I,  papa.  Margarita  Frantzovna  has  sent  me," 
I  gulp  out  in  reply. 


48  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

Then  for  the  first  time  father  divines  what  is  the 
matter. 

"Ah,  ah!  you  have  been  naughty  again,  of  course," 
he  says,  trying  to  communicate  to  his  voice  as  stern 
an  intonation  as  possible.  "Come,  tell  your  story. 
What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

And  I,  with  sobs  and  breaks,  begin  my  denuncia- 
tion of  myself. 

My  father  listens  in  an  absent-minded  way  to  my 
confession.  His  ideas  of  education  are  very  elemen- 
tary, and  the  whole  of  pedagogy  he  puts  under  the 
rubric  of  woman's,  not  man's,  business.  Naturally  he 
does  not  even  suspect  what  a  complicated  inner  world 
has  formed  within  the  head  of  that  little  girl  who  now 
stands  before  him  and  awaits  his  sentence.  Occupied 
with  his  "  man's  business,"  he  has  not  observed  that  I 
have  gradually  grown  up  from  the  chubby  child  that 
I  was  five  years  ago.  He  evidently  finds  himself  in 
difficulties  as  to  what  he  shall  say  to  me;  how  he 
ought  to  act  in  the  case  presented  to  him.  My  mis- 
demeanor seems  to  him  of  small  importance,  but  he  is 
a  firm  believer  in  the  necessity  of  sternness  in  the  rear- 
ing of  children.  He  is  vexed  at  heart  at  the  governess, 
because  she  has  not  known  how  to  settle  so  trivial  a 
matter  herself,  instead  of  sending  me  to  him ;  but  he 
is  bound  to  exhibit  his  authority  now  that  his  inter- 
vention has  been  invoked.  Therefore,  in  order  not  to 
diminish  his  authority,  he  endeavors  to  assume  a  look 
of  severity  and  disapproval. 

"  What  a  horrid,  naughty  little  girl  you  are.  I  am 
very  much  displeased  with  you,"  he  says,  and  pauses 
because  he  does  not  know  what  else  to  say.  "Go, 
stand  in  the  corner,"  he  pronounces  judgment  at  last, 
because,  out  of  all  his  pedagogic  wisdom,  his  memory 
has  retained  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that  naughty 
children  are  made  to  stand  in  the  corner. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  49 

And  so  you  may  picture  to  yourself  how  I,  a  big 
girl  of  twelve — I,  who  a  few  minutes  previously  had 
been  going  through  the  most  complicated  dramas 
with  the  heroine  of  a  romance  perused  on  the  sly, — 
I  am  obliged  to  go  and  stand  in  the  corner  like  a 
foolish  little  child. 

My  father  continues  his  occupations  at  his  writing- 
table.  Profound  silence  reigns  in  the  room.  I  stand 
motionless,  but,  good  heavens,  through  what  a  gamut 
of  thoughts  and  emotions  do  I  not  pass  in  those  few 
minutes !  I  understand  and  recognize  so  clearly  the 
fact  how  stupid  and  awkward  this  whole  situation 
is ;  a  certain  feeling  of  inward  shame  in  my  father's 
presence  makes  me  obey  in  silence,  and  does  not  per- 
mit me  to  burst  out  into  a  roar  and  make  a  scene. 
Nevertheless  the  feeling  of  bitter  insult,  of  powerless 
wrath,  rises  in  my  throat  and  chokes  me.  "What 
nonsense !  What  is  it  to  me  that  I  must  stand  in  the 
corner  ? y  I  console  myself  inwardly,  but  I  feel  hurt 
that  my  father  is  able  and  willing  to  humiliate  me, 
and  he  that  very  father  of  whom  I  am  so  proud, 
whom  I  place  above  all  others. 

It  would  be  well  enough,  too,  if  we  were  alone. 
But  some  one  knocks  at  the  door,  and  that  intolera- 
ble Ilya  makes  his  appearance  in  the  room,  under 
some  pretext  or  other.  I  am  perfectly  well  aware  that 
the  pretext  is  invented,  that  he  has  come  simply  out 
of  curiosity,  to  see  how  the  young  mistress  is  being 
punished;  but  he  makes  no  sign  of  this,  does  his 
business  with  deliberation,  as  if  he  perceived  nothing, 
and  merely  casts  a  scoffing  glance  at  me  as  he  leaves 
the  room.  Oh,  how  I  hate  him  at  that  moment ! 

I  stand  so  still  that  my  father  sometimes  forgets 
me,  and  makes  me  stand  for  quite  a  long  time,  be- 
cause, of  course,  I  am  too  proud  to  ask  forgiveness 
on  any  account.  At  last  father  remembers  me,  and 


50  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

dismisses  me  with  the  words :  "  Well,  be  off  with  you, 
and  see  that  you  play  no  more  pranks!"  It  never 
enters  his  head  that  his  poor  little  daughter  has  been 
undergoing  great  moral  torture  during  that  half -hour. 
He  would  probably  be  frightened  if  he  could  look  in- 
to my  mind.  Naturally,  after  the  expiration  of  a  few 
minutes,  he  forgets  all  about  that  disagreeable,  childish 
episode.  And  in  the  mean  time  I  leave  his  study  with  a 
feeling  of  such  unchildlike  pain,  of  undeserved  injury, 
as  I  never  experienced^afterward  save  in  the  very  hard- 
est moments  of  my  life,  and  that  only  twice  or  thrice. 

I  return  to  the  school-room,  quieted  and  subdued. 

The  governess  is  satisfied  with  the  results  of  her 
pedagogical  process,  because  I  am  so  quiet  and  good 
for  many  days  after  this,  that  she  cannot  sufficiently 
praise  my  conduct ;  but  she  would  be  less  satisfied  if 
she  knew  what  traces  this  process  of  my  subjugation 
have  left  in  my  soul. 

In  general,  there  runs  through  all  the  memories  of 
my  childhood,  like  a  black  thread,  the  conviction  that 
I  was  not  beloved  in  the  family.  In  addition  to  the 
remarks  of  the  servants,  which  I  accidentally  over- 
heard, the  isolated  life  which  I  led  with  my  governess 
contributed,  in  a  large  measure,  to  the  development 
of  this  sorrowful  conviction. 

The  governess's  lot  was  not  a  happy  one  either. 
Homely,  lonely,  no  longer  young,  parted  from  Eng- 
lish society,  and  never  thoroughly  acclimated  in 
Russia,  she  concentrated  upon  me  the  whole  stock  of 
affection,  the  whole  hunger  for  moral  ownership,  of 
which  her  strong,  energetic,  unyielding  nature  was 
capable.  I  really  served  as  the  center  and  goal  of  all 
her  thoughts  and  cares,  and  gave  a  meaning  to  her 
life;  but  her  love  for  me  was  oppressive,  jealous,  ex- 
acting, and  utterly  devoid  of  tenderness. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  51 

My  mother  and  my  governess  were  of  such  entirely 
different  natures  that  no  sympathy  whatever  could  ex- 
ist between  them.  My  mother,  in  character  and  ap- 
pearance, belonged  to  that  class  of  women  who  never 
grow  old.  There  was  a  great  difference  of  age  be- 
tween her  and  my  father,  and  my  father  even  to  old 
age  continued  to  treat  her  like  a  child.  He  called 
her  Liza  or  Lizok,  while  she  always  addressed  him 
as  Vasily  Vasilievitch.  He  sometimes  reproved  her 
even  in  the  presence  of  us  children.  "  You  're  talk- 
ing nonsense  again,  Lizotchka ! "  we  heard  quite  fre- 
quently. And  mama  never  took  offense  at  this  re- 
mark ;  if  she  continued  to  insist  on  her  own  way,  it 
was  only  like  a  spoiled  child,  who  has  a  right  to  de- 
sire even  what  is  irrationaL 

Mama  was  decidedly  afraid  of  our  governess,  be- 
cause the  independent  Englishwoman  frequently 
spoke  the  truth  to  her  with  cruel  boldness  —  claimed 
to  be  the  sole  and  sovereign  mistress  in  the  rooms 
belonging  to  us  children,  and  received  mama  there 
as  a  mere  guest.  Consequently  mama  did  not  look 
in  on  us  very  often,  and  did  not  meddle  with  my  edu- 
cation in  the  least. 

As  for  me,  I  was  very  enthusiastic  in  my  own  heart 
over  my  mama,  who  seemed  to  me  more  beautiful 
and  charming  than  all  the  ladies  of  our  acquaintance; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  I  constantly  felt  rather  hurt  — 
why  did  she  love  me  less  than  the  other  children  ? 

I  am  sitting  in  the  school-room  of  an  evening;  my 
lessons  for  the  morrow  are  all  ready;  but  still  the 
governess,  on  various  pretexts,  does  not  let  me  go 
up-stairs.  In  the  mean  time  sounds  of  music  reach  us 
from  the  hall  up-stairs,  which  is  situated  directly  over 
the  school-room.  Mama  is  in  the  habit  of  playing 
the  piano  in  the  evening.  She  plays  for  hours  to- 


52  SCNYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

gether  without  notes,  composing,  improvising,  passing 
from  one  theme  to  another.  She  has  a  great  deal  of 
musical  taste,  and  a  marvelously  delicate  touch,  and  I 
am  awfully  fond  of  listening  to  her  play.  Under  the 
influence  of  the  music  and  of  fatigue  from  my  lessons, 
a  wave  of  tenderness  surges  over  me,  a  desire  to  nes- 
tle up  to  some  one,  to  caress  some  one.  Only  a  few 
minutes  remain  before  the  hour  for  evening  tea,  and, 
at  last,  the  governess  lets  me  go.  I  run  up-stairs  and 
find  the  following  scene:  mama  has  already  ceased 
to  play  and  is  seated  on  the  divan;  Aniuta  and 
Fedya  are  sitting  there  also,  one  on  each  side  of  her, 
cuddling  up  to  her.  They  are  laughing  and  talking 
about  something  in  so  very  lively  a  manner  that  they 
do  not  observe  my  arrival.  I  stand  beside  them  for 
a  few  minutes,  in  the  hope  that  they  will  notice  me, 
but  they  continue  to  talk  about  their  own  affairs. 
This  is  enough  to  chill  all  my  warmth.  "They  are 
happy  without  me."  The  bitter,  jealous  feeling 
sweeps  across  my  soul,  and  instead  of  running  to 
mama  and  beginning  to  kiss  her  lovely  white  hands, 
as  I  had  pictured  to  myself  down-stairs  in  the  school- 
room, I  hide  myself  somewhere  in  a  corner,  far  away 
from  them,  and  sulk,  until  we  are  called  to  tea ;  and 
soon  after  that  I  am  sent  to  bed. 


MY    UNCLE,  PI6TR    VASILIEVITCH 

THIS  conviction — that  my  family  loved  me  less 
than  the  other  children — pained  me  very  deeply, 
the  more  so  as  the  craving  for  a  strong  and  exclusive 
affection  was  very  early  developed  in  me.  The  result 
of  this  was  that  no  sooner  did  one  of  my  relatives,  or 
one  of  the  friends  of  the  family,  show  me  the  slightest 
attention,  for  any  reason  whatever,  above  the  atten- 
tion shown  to  my  brother  or  sister,  than  I,  on  my 
side,  immediately  began  to  feel  for  that  person  a  sen- 
timent which  bordered  on  adoration. 

I  remember  two  particularly  strong  attachments  of 
my  childhood  —  for  my  two  uncles.  One  of  them 
was  my  father's  oldest  brother,  Piotr  Vasilievitch 
Korvin-Krukovsky.  He  was  an  extremely  pictur- 
esque old  man,  of  lofty  stature,  with  a  massive  head 
entirely  framed  in  thick,  white  curls.  His  face,  with 
regular,  severe  profile,  with  thick,  bushy  eyebrows, 
and  a  deep,  vertical  furrow  cutting  through  his  high 
forehead,  almost  from  top  to  bottom,  might  have 
seemed  stern,  almost  harsh,  in  effect,  had  it  not  been 
lighted  up  by  such  kind,  ingenuous  eyes,  such  as 
belong  only  to  Newfoundland  dogs  and  to  small 
children. 

This  uncle  of  mine  was,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the 
word,  a  man  who  was  not  of  this  world.  Although 
he  was  the  elder  by  birth,  and  should  have  repre- 


54 S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

sented  the  head  of  the  family,  as  a  matter  of  fact 
every  one  who  took  it  into  his  head  could  order  him 
about,  and  that  was  the  way  every  one  in  the  family 
treated  him  —  like  an  elderly  child.  He  had  long  en- 
joyed the  reputation  of  being  an  eccentric  man,  and  a 
dreamer.  His  wife  had  died  several  years  earlier. 
He  had  made  over  the  whole  of  his  fairly  large  estate 
to  his  only  son,  having  stipulated  only  that  he  should 
receive  a  very  insignificant  monthly  allowance,  and, 
being  thus  left  without  any  fixed  occupation,  he  came 
frequently  to  visit  us  at  Palibino,  and  remained  for 
weeks  at  a  time.  We  always  regarded  his  arrival  as 
a  festival,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  house  became, 
somehow,  more  agreeable,  more  lively  when  he  was 
there. 

The  library  was  his  favorite  nook.  He  was  exces- 
sively lazy  where  any  sort  of  physical  exertion  was 
concerned,  and  would  sit  motionless  for  days  together 
on  a  large  leather-covered  divan,  with  one  leg  tucked 
up  under  him,  with  his  left  eye,  which  was  weaker 
than  the  right,  screwed  up,  and  wholly  absorbed  in 
the  perusal  of  the  "Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,"  his 
favorite  periodical. 

His  sole  weakness  was  reading  to  excess,  to  the 
verge  of  insanity.  He  was  greatly  interested  in  poli- 
tics. He  devoured  with  avidity  the  newspapers, 
which  reached  us  once  a  week,  and  then  he  sat  and 
meditated  for  a  long  while :  "  What  new  mischief  is 
that  scamp  of  a  Napoleon  concocting  now  ? "  During 
the  last  years  of  his  life  Bismarck  also  caused  him  a 
great  deal  of  mental  labor.  However,  uncle  was  con- 
vinced that  "  Napoleon  would  gobble  up  Bismarck," 
and,  as  he  died  shortly  before  1870,  he  retained  that 
conviction  to  the  end. 

As  soon  as  it  was  a  question  of  politics,  uncle  ex- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  55 

hibited  remarkable  bloodthirstiness.  It  was  noth- 
ing to  him  to  annihilate  an  army  of  even  a  hundred 
thousand  men  on  the  spot.  He  exhibited  equal  lack 
of  mercy  when  he  chastised  evil-doers,  in  his  imag- 
ination. 

A  criminal  was  to  him  a  fantastic  personage,  as  he 
considered  every  one  in  real  life  upright. 

In  spite  of  our  governess's  protest  he  condemned 
all  English  officials  in  India  to  be  hung.  "Yes, 
madam,  all,  all ! "  he  shouted,  pounding  the  table  vio- 
lently with  his  fist  in  the  heat  of  his  passion.  His 
aspect,  at  such  times,  was  so  savage  and  menacing 
that  any  one  who  had  chanced  to  enter  the  room 
would  certainly  have  been  frightened.  But  all  of  a 
sudden  he  would  calm  down,  and  confusion  and 
repentance  would  be  pictured  on  his  countenance. 
This  was  because  he  had  suddenly  observed  that  his 
unguarded  movements  had  terrified  our  universal  pet, 
a  greyhound,  Grisi,  which  had  been  on  the  point  of 
taking  a  seat  beside  him  on  the  divan. 

But  uncle  was  carried  away  most  of  all  when  he 
came  upon  the  description  of  some  new  scientific  dis- 
covery, in  a  newspaper.  On  days  when  this  happened 
hot  disputes  and  discussions  tfook  place  at  table, 
though  in  uncle's  absence  dinner  usually  passed  off 
in  sullen  silence,  as  all  the  members  of  the  household, 
in  the  lack  of  common  interests,  did  not  know  what 
to  say  to  each  other. 

"  Did  you  read,  my  dear  sister,  what  Paul  Behr  has 
invented  ? "  uncle  would  say,  addressing  my  mother. 
"He  has  made  some  artificial  Siamese  Twins.  He 
has  made  the  nerves  of  one  rabbit  grow  fast  to  the 
nerves  of  another  rabbit.  You  strike  one  and  the 
other  feels  pain.  Well,  now,  do  you  know  of  what 
that  savors  ? " 


56  SONY  A  KOVALfiVSKY 

And  uncle  would  begin  to  communicate  to  those 
present  the  contents  of  the  newspaper  article  which  he 
had  just  read,  involuntarily,  almost  unconsciously, 
adorning  it,  and  filling  it  out,  and  deducing  from  it 
such  hazardous  conclusions  and  results  as  the  inventor 
himself  had,  most  assuredly,  never  dreamed  of. 

His  narration  would  be  followed  by  a  heated  dis- 
cussion. Mama  and  Aniuta  usually  went  over  im- 
mediately to  uncle's  side,  and  waxed  enthusiastic 
over  the  new  discovery.  The  governess,  in  accor- 
dance with  the  spirit  of  opposition  which  was  pecu- 
liar to  her,  almost  as  infallibly  ranged  herself  against 
him,  and  began  vehemently  to  demonstrate  the  incon- 
sistency, and,  occasionally,  even  the  peccability,  of  the 
theories  advanced  by  uncle.  The  tutor  sometimes 
put  in  a  word  when  it  was  a  question  purely  of  a 
statement  of  facts,  but  wisely  avoided  direct  share  in 
the  dispute.  As  for  papa,  he  turned  himself  into  a 
skeptical,  scoffing  critic,  who  sided  with  neither  of 
the  antagonists,  but  confined  himself  to  keeping  a 
sharp  eye  on  both,  and  emphasizing  all  the  weak 
points  in  both  camps. 

These  discussions  sometimes  assumed  a  very  war- 
like character,  and  by  a  sort  of  fatality  they  always 
ended  in  the  opponents  suddenly  leaping  from  ques- 
tions of  a  purely  abstract  character  into  the  domain 
of  petty  personal  assaults. 

The  most  obdurate  opponents  were  always  Marga- 
rita Frantzovna  and  Aniuta,  between  whom  a  tacit 
"  Seven  Years'  "War  "  was  in  progress,  interrupted  only 
by  periods  of  temporary  armed  truce. 

If  uncle  amazed  us  by  the  boldness  of  his  generali- 
zations, the  governess  in  turn  distinguished  herself 
by  no  less  talented  applications.  In  the  most  abstract 
scientific  theories,  which  were  apparently  the  furthest 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  57 

removed  from  the  sphere  of  every-day  life,  she  would 
suddenly  espy  grounds  for  condemning  Aniuta's  be- 
havior— grounds  so  original  and  unexpected  that 
none  of  us  could  do  anything  but  raise  our  hands  in 
amazement. 

Aniuta  did  not  remain  in  her  debt,  and  retorted  in 
so  bold  and  vicious  a  way  that  the  governess  would 
jump  up  from  the  table,  and  declare  that  after  such 
an  insult  she  would  not  remain  in  our  house. 

Every  one  who  was  present  felt  awkward.  Mama, 
who  hated  disputes  and  scenes,  took  upon  herself  the 
part  of  mediator,  and  the  matter  ended  in  the  conclu- 
sion of  a  peace  after  long  negotiations. 

I  can  even  yet  recall  what  a  storm  was  raised  in 
our  house  by  two  articles  in  the  "  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes,"  one  on  the  "Conservation  of  Energy"  (an 
account  of  Helmholtz's  pamphlet),  the  other  on  the 
experiments  of  Claude-Bernard  on  the  excision  of 
portions  of  the  brain  in  the  pigeon.  Probably  Claudet 
Bernard  and  Helmholtz  would  have  been  greatly  as- 
tonished if  they  had  known  what  an  apple  of  dis- 
cord they  had  flung  into  a  peaceful  Russian  family 
dwelling  somewhere  in  the  waste  places  of  the  gov- 
ernment of  Vitebsk. 

But  it  was  not  alone  politics  and  the  accounts  of 
new  discoveries  which  possessed  the  power  of  upset- 
ting the  temper  of  my  uncle  Pi6tr  Vasilievitch.  He 
read  romances  and  travels  and  historical  articles  with 
equal  enthusiasm.  He  was  even  willing  to  read  our 
children's  books  in  the  absence  of  anything  better. 
I  never  met  with  such  a  passion  for  reading  as  he  had 
in  any  one,  unless  in  a  few  half-grown  boys.  It  would 
seem  as  if  there  could  not  be  a  more  innocent  passion, 
or  one  which  a  wealthy  landed  proprietor  could  more 
easily  indulge.  Nevertheless  Uncle  Piotr  Vasilievitch 


58  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

had  hardly  any  books  of  his  own,  and  it  was  only 
during  the  last  years  of  his  life,  and  that  thanks  to 
our  library  at  Palibino,  that  he  was  able  to  enjoy  the 
only  pleasure  which  he  prized. 

Thanks  to  the  remarkable  weakness  of  his  charac- 
ter, which  formed  such  a  contrast  to  his  harsh,  impos- 
ing exterior,  he  had  been  under  somebody's  thumb 
all  his  life,  and  under  a  thumb  so  stern  and  imperious 
that  there  could  be  no  question  of  his  indulging  any 
whims  or  personal  tastes. 

In  consequence  of  this  weakness  of  character,  he 
had  been  acknowledged  in  his  childhood  to  be  unfit 
for  military  service,  the  only  occupation  which  was  at 
that  time  regarded  as  decent  for  a  nobleman  of  an- 
cient descent}  and  as  he  was  of  a  mild  temper  and 
not  addicted  to  pranks,  his  tender  parents  decided  to 
let  him  remain  at  home,  giving  him  only  so  much 
education  as  was  required  to  prevent  his  becoming  a 
hobbledehoy  among  the  gentry.1 

Everything  he  knew  he  had  arrived  at  by  dint  of 
thinking  it  out  for  himself,  or  by  reading  it  afterward 
in  books.  But  his  knowledge  really  was  remarkable; 
only,  as  in  the  case  of  all  self-taught  persons,  it  was 
scattered  and  unequal  in  quality.  On  some  subjects 
it  was  very  great,  on  others  quite  insignificant. 

When  he  grew  up  he  continued  to  live  at  home  in 
the  country  without  exhibiting  the  slightest  selfish- 
ness, and  contenting  himself  with  a  very  humble 
place  in  the  family.  His  younger  and  far  more  bril- 
liant brothers  treated  him  in  a  condescending,  ami- 
ably patronizing  manner,  as  a  harmless,  queer  fellow. 
But  all  at  once  an  unexpected  piece  of  good  luck  de- 
scended upon  him  as  if  from  heaven:  the  greatest 

!An  allusion  to  Von  Vizin's  famous  comedy,  "  The  Hobblede- 
hoy."— Trans. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  59 

beauty  and  richest  match  of  the  whole  government, 
Nadezhda  Andreevna  N.,  turned  her  attention  to  him. 
She  was  carried  away  by  his  handsome  person,  or 
simply  made  up  her  mind  that  he  was  the  sort  of  hus- 
band she  wanted,  that  it  would  be  pleasant  always  to 
have  at  her  feet  this  big,  submissive  creature,  entirely 
devoted  to  her — God  knows  what  she  thought.  At 
any  rate  she  gave  it  plainly  to  be  understood  that  she 
would  be  glad  to  marry  him  if  he  would  ask  her. 

Pi6tr  Vasilievitch  himself  would  never  have  dared 
to  dream  of  anything  of  the  sort,  but  his  numerous 
aunts  and  sisters  made  haste  to  set  forth  what  a  piece 
of  luck  had  fallen  to  his  lot ;  and  before  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  recovering  himself,  he  found  himself  the 
affianced  husband  of  the  beautiful,  imperious,  spoiled 
darling,  Nadezhda  Andreevna. 

But  no  happiness  resulted  from  this  match. 

Although  all  we  children  were  thoroughly  perme- 
ated with  the  conviction  that  Uncle  Pi6tr  Vasilievitch 
existed  in  the  world  especially  for  our  pleasure,  and 
chattered  all  sorts  of  nonsense  with  him  that  came 
into  our  heads,  without  the  slightest  restraint,  still  we 
all  felt,  as  if  by  instinct,  that  one  subject  must  never 
be  broached:  we  must  never  ask  uncle  about  his 
deceased  wife. 

The  most  sinister  legends  about  Aunt  Nadezhda 
Andreevna  were  current  among  us.  The  elders — that 
is  to  say,  father,  mother,  and  the  governess — never 
mentioned  her  name  in  our  presence. 

But  Aunt  Anna  Vasilievna,  my  father's  youngest 
unmarried  sister,  was  occasionally  seized  with  a  talk- 
ative mood,  and  she  would  then  begin  to  communi- 
cate to  us  divers  horrors  about  "  her  late  dear  sister, 
Nadezhda  Andreevna." 

"  There  was  a  serpent  for  you !     God  preserve  us  ! 


60  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

She  simply  worried  me  and  my  sister  Marfinka  to 
death !  And  did  n't  brother  Piotr  catch  it  from  her ! 
She  would  fly  into  a  passion  at  one  of  the  servants, 
and  would  run  straight  into  his  study,  and  demand 
that  he  should  chastise  the  offender  with  his  own 
hands.  He,  in  his  kindheartedness,  would  object, 
and  would  try  to  reason  with  her.  Much  good  that 
did !  His  arguments  only  made  her  more  furiously 
angry.  She  would  fall  foul  of  him,  and  begin  to 
abuse  him  with  every  bad  word  possible.  And  he  's 
a  regular  marmot,  not  in  the  least  like  a  man !  It 
made  one  feel  ashamed  to  listen.  At  last  she  per- 
ceives that  she  will  not  move  him  with  words,  so  she 
snatches  an  armful  of  his  papers,  books, —  whatever 
she  can  lay  her  hands  on  upon  his  table, — and  flings 
them  all  into  the  stove.  '  I  won't  have  any  of  this 
rubbish  in  my  house  ! '  she  screams.  It  even  hap- 
pened sometimes  that  she  pulled  a  slipper  from  his 
feet,  and  struck  him  on  the  cheeks  with  it.  Truly ! 
And  how  she  would  lay  on  !  And  he,  dear,  peaceable 
dove,  would  not  defend  himself,  and  would  only  try 
to  hold  her  hands, —  and  so  carefully,  lest  he  should 
hurt  her, —  and  reprove  her.  'What  are  you  doing, 
Nadenka?  Come  to  your  senses!  Are  n't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself?  And  before  the  servants, 
too  ! '  But  she  had  no  shame  about  her." 

"How  could  uncle  endure  such  treatment?  Why 
did  n't  he  leave  his  wife  ?  n  we  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"  Eh,  my  dears,  does  a  man  throw  away  his  wedded 
wife  as  he  would  a  glove ! "  replied  Aunt  Anna  Va- 
silievna.  "  And  I  ought  to  add  that  she  was  not  un- 
happy with  him,  and  that,  nevertheless,  he  loved  her 
without  bounds." 

"  Did  he  really  love  her  ?    Such  a  wicked  woman ! " 

"He  loved  her  so,  dear  children,  that  he  could 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  61 

not  live  without  her!  When  they  settled  her  he 
mourned  so  that  he  came  near  laying  violent  hands 
on  himself." 

''What  's  that,  aunty?  What  do  you  mean  by 
saying  '  when  they  settled  her?'  " 

But  aunty,  perceiving  that  she  had  said  more  than 
she  intended,  suddenly  broke  her  narrative  off  short, 
and  began  energetically  to  knit  at  her  stocking,  in 
order  to  show  ns  that  there  was  to  be  no  continu- 
ation. But  our  curiosity  was  inflamed,  and  we  would 
not  cease. 

"  Dear  aunty,  tell  us,  that  's  a  darling ! "  we  en- 
treated. 

And,  evidently,  aunty  herself  cannot  stop,  since  she 
is  in  the  talkative  mood. 

"  Why,  this  was  the  way  of  it.  Her  own  serf  girls 
strangled  her ! "  she  suddenly  replied. 

"  Heavens !  How  horrible !  How  did  that  hap- 
pen !  Aunty,  dearest  friend,  tell  us  ! "  we  cried. 

"  Why,  very  simply  ! "  answered  Anna  Vasilievna. 
"  She  was  left  alone  in  the  house  one  night,  having 
sent  brother  Piotr  and  the  children  away  somewhere. 
In  the  evening  her  favorite  chambermaid,  Malanya, 
undressed  her,  and  had  taken  off  her  shoes  and  stock- 
ings, and  put  her  to  bed  in  proper  fashion,  when,  all 
of  a  sudden,  she  clapped  her  hands  !  At  this  signal 
other  maids  made  their  appearance  from  all  the 
neighboring  rooms,  and  Feodor  the  coachman,  and 
Yevstignei  the  gardener.  As  soon  as  sister  Nadezhda 
Andreevna  had  looked  at  their  faces  she  knew  that 
matters  were  serious  with  her;  but  she  did  not  be- 
come terrified;  she  did  not  lose  her  presence  of 
mind.  She  shouted  at  them :  '  What  are  you  up  to, 
you  devils  ?  Have  you  lost  your  wits  ?  Begone  this 
moment,  every  one  of  you ! '  They  turned  cowardly, 


62  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

out  of  habit,  and  were  already  retreating  toward  the 
doors,  when  Malanya,  who  was  bolder  than  the  rest, 
began  to  argue  with  them. 

" '  What  are  you  about,  you  vile  cowards  ?  Have  n't 
you  any  mercy  on  your  own  hides  ?  She  '11  pack  you 
all  off  to  Siberia  to-morrow!'  Then  they  came  to 
their  senses,  and  the  whole  horde  rushed  up  to  her 
bed,  seized  my  late  sister  by  the  hands  and  feet,  flung 
a  feather-bed  on  her,  and  began  to  smother  her.  She 
begged  for  mercy,  and  offered  them  money  and  all 
sorts  of  goods !  No ;  they  would  accept  nothing. 
For  Malanya,  her  favorite,  continued  to  exhort  them : 

"'A  towel;  throw  a  wet  towel  over  her  head  so 
that  no  blue  marks  will  be  left  on  her  face.'  The  peo- 
ple themselves,  those  miserable  serfs,  confessed  it  af- 
terward. They  told  in  detail,  in  court,  under  the 
rods,  just  how  it  took  place.  Well,  and  they  were 
not  patted  on  the  head  for  this,  their  fine  piece  of 
work.  Many  of  them,  I  think,  must  still  be  rotting 
in  Siberia." 

Aunt  relapsed  into  silence,  and  we  also  remained 
silent  with  horror. 

"  See  now  that  you  don't  tell  papa  and  mama  that 
I  have  been  so  silly  as  to  chatter  all  this  to  you," 
were  aunt's  parting  words  to  us.  But  we  already 
knew  for  ourselves  that  such  things  were  not  to  be 
mentioned  to  papa,  nor  mama,  nor  to  our  governess. 
Nothing  but  a  row  would  come  of  that. 

But  at  night,  when  bedtime  approached,  this  tale 
pursued  me,  and  would  not  let  me  sleep. 

Once,  when  I  was  on  uncle's  estate,  I  saw  a  portrait 
of  my  aunt  Nadezhda  Andreevna,  painted  in  oil,  full 
length,  in  that  commonplace,  stereotyped  manner  in 
which  all  portraits  of  that  date  were  painted.  And 
then  she  presented  herself  vividly  to  me:  small  of 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  63 

stature,  elegant  as  a  porcelain  doll,  clad  in  a  low- 
necked,  scarlet  velvet  gown,  with  a  garnet  necklace 
on  her  magnificent  white  neck,  with  a  brilliant  color 
on  her  round  cheeks,  an  arrogant  expression  in  her 
large,  black  eyes,  and  a  stereotyped  smile  on  her  small, 
rosy  mouth.  I  tried  to  imagine  how  those  huge  eyes 
must  have  opened  wider  yet,  what  terror  must  have 
been  depicted  in  them,  when  she  suddenly  saw  before 
her  the  peaceable  slaves  who  had  come  to  kill  her  ! 

Then  I  began  to  imagine  myself  in  her  place. 
While  Dunyasha  was  undressing  me  it  suddenly 
flashed  across  my  mind :  what  if  her  kind,  round  face 
were  to  undergo  a  change  all  at  once,  and  become 
malicious;  what  if  she  were  suddenly  to  clap  her 
hands,  and  then  Hya  and  Stepan  and  Sasha  were  to 
enter  and  say :  "  We  have  come  to  kill  you,  miss ! " 

All  at  once  I  am  thoroughly  alarmed  by  this  absurd 
thought,  so  that  I  do  not  detain  Dunyasha,  as  usual, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  am  almost  glad  when  she  fin- 
ishes my  toilet  for  the  night,  and  goes  off,  at  last,  car- 
rying the  candle  with  her.  But  still  I  cannot  go  to 
sleep,  and  I  lie  for  a  long  time  in  the  dark  with  eyes 
wide  open,  impatiently  waiting  to  see  whether  the 
governess  will  come  soon,  when  she  gets  through 
playing  cards  up-stairs  with  the  grown-up  people. 

Every  time  that  I  am  left  alone  with  uncle  Pi6tr 
Vasilievitch  this  story  involuntarily  recurs  to  my 
mind,  and  it  seems  to  me  strange  and  incomprehensi- 
ble that  this  man,  who  has  suffered  so  much  in  his 
day,  should  now  play  chess  with  me  as  calmly  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  make  me  paper  boats,  or  wax 
enthusiastic  over  some  project  or  other  of  reclaiming 
the  ancient  bed  of  the  Syr-Darya,  or  over  some  other 
newspaper  article.  Children  always  find  it  hard  to 
imagine  that  any  one  of  those  nearly  connected  with 


64  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

them,  whom  they  have  been  accustomed  to  see  on 
simple,  easy  terms,  in  domestic  intercourse,  has  lived 
through  anything  out  of  the  ordinary  run,  or  tragic, 
in  his  time. 

Sometimes  I  felt  a  longing  which  was  simply  pain- 
ful to  question  uncle  in  detail  as  to  how  it  all  had 
happened.  I  would  gaze  at  him  for  a  long  time 
without  taking  my  eyes  off  of  him,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  I  could  imagine  that  big,  powerful,  clever 
man  trembling  before  his  little  beauty  of  a  wife,  and 
weeping,  and  kissing  her  hands,  while  she  was  tearing 
his  papers  and  books,  or  slapping  him  on  the  cheeks 
with  the  slipper  which  she  had  taken  from  his  foot. 

Once,  only  once,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  child- 
hood, I  could  not  restrain  myself,  and  I  touched 
uncle's  tender  point. 

It  was  in  the  evening.  We  were  alone  in  the  li- 
brary. Uncle  was  sitting  as  usual  on  the  divan,  with 
his  legs  tucked  up  under  him,  and  reading.  I  had 
been  running  about  the  room  playing  with  my  ball, 
but  at  last  I  had  got  tired,  had  seated  myself  beside 
him  on  the  divan,  and,  fixing  my  eyes  on  him,  had 
given  myself  over  to  my  customary  meditations  re- 
garding him. 

All  at  once  uncle  dropped  his  book,  and,  patting 
me  affectionately  on  the  head,  inquired :  "  What  are 
you  thinking  about,  dear  child  ? " 

"  Uncle,  were  you  very  unhappy  with  your  wife  ? " 
suddenly  burst  from  my  lips,  almost  involuntarily. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  this  unexpected  question 
acted  on  my  poor  uncle.  His  calm,  stern  face  sud- 
denly became  furrowed  with  fine  wrinkles,  as  if  from 
physical  pain.  He  even  stretched  out  his  hand  in 
front  of  him,  exactly  as  if  he  were  warding  off  a 
blowj  and  I  felt  so  sorry  for  him,  so  pained  and  so 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  65 

ashamed.  I  fancied  that  it  was  I  who  had  taken  the 
slipper  from  his  foot  and  struck  him  with  it  on  the 
cheeks. 

"Uncle,  darling,  forgive  me!  I  spoke  without 
thinking ! "  I  said,  cuddling  up  to  him,  and  hiding 
my  face,  which  was  crimson  with  shame,  on  his 
bosom.  And  my  kind  uncle  had  to  comfort  me  for 
my  indiscretion. 

From  that  day  forth  I  never  returned  to  that  pro- 
hibited subject.  But  about  everything  else  I  could 
question  Uncle  Pi6tr  Vasilievitch  boldly.  I  was  re- 
garded as  his  favorite,  and  we  used  to  sit  together 
for  hours  at  a  time,  chatting  about  all  sorts  of  things. 
When  he  was  interested  in  any  idea,  he  could  think 
and  speak  of  nothing  else.  Quite  forgetful  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  addressing  a  child,  he  frequently 
developed  before  me  the  most  abstract  theories.  And 
this  it  was  precisely  which  pleased  me,  that  he  con- 
versed with  me  as  with  a  grown-up  person,  and  I 
bent  all  my  efforts  to  understand  him,  or  at  least  to 
present  the  appearance  of  understanding  him. 

Although  he  had  never  studied  mathematics,  he 
cherished  the  most  profound  respect  for  that  science. 
He  had  gathered  a  certain  amount  of  mathematical 
knowledge  from  various  books,  and  loved  to  philoso- 
phize about  them,  on  which  occasions  it  frequently 
happened  that  he  thought  aloud  in  my  presence.  I 
heard  from  him  for  the  first  time,  for  example,  about 
the  quadrature  of  the  circle,  about  the  asymptotes 
which  the  curve  always  approaches  without  ever 
attaining  them,  and  about  many  other  things  of  the 
same  sort — the  sense  of  which  I  could  not  of  course 
understand  as  yet;  but  which  acted  on  my  inspiration, 
imbuing  me  with  a  reverence  for  mathematics,  as  for 
a  very  lofty  and  mysterious  science,  which  opened  out 


66  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

to  those  who  consecrated  themselves  to  it  a  new  and 
wonderful  world  not  to  be  attained  by  simple  mortals. 

While  referring  to  these  my  first  encounters  with 
the  domain  of  mathematics,  I  cannot  refrain  from 
mentioning  one  very  curious  circumstance  which  also 
contributed  to  excite  my  interest  in  that  science. 

When  we  transferred  our  abode  to  the  country  the 
whole  house  had  to  be  done  over  afresh,  and  all 
the  rooms  were  repapered.  But  as  the  rooms  were 
many,  there  was  not  paper  enough  for  one  of  the 
rooms  belonging  to  us  children;  it  was  a  great  un- 
dertaking to  order  more  from  St.  Petersburg,  and 
to  order  for  a  single  room  was  decidedly  not  worth 
the  while.  They  kept  waiting  for  an  opportunity, 
and  in  the  interim  this  ill-treated  room  stood  for 
many  years  with  nothing  but  common  paper  on  its 
walls.  But  by  a  happy  accident  the  paper  used  for 
this  first  covering  consisted  of  sheets  of  Ostrograd- 
sky's  lithographed  lectures  on  the  differential  and  the 
integral  calculus,  bought  by  my  father  in  his  youth. 

These  sheets,  spotted  over  with  strange,  incompre- 
hensible formula?,  soon  attracted  my  attention.  I 
remember  how,  in  my  childhood,  I  passed  whole 
hours  before  that  mysterious  wall,  trying  to  decipher 
even  a  single  phrase,  and  to  discover  the  order  in 
which  the  sheets  ought  to  follow  each  other.  By  dint 
of  prolonged  and  daily  scrutiny,  the  external  aspect 
of  many  among  these  formulae  was  fairly  engraved 
on  my  memory,  and  even  the  text  left  a  deep  trace 
on  my  brain,  although  at  the  moment  of  reading  it 
was  incomprehensible  to  me. 

When,  many  years  later,  as  a  girl  of  fifteen,  I  took 
my  first  lesson  in  differential  calculus  from  the  fa- 
mous teacher  in  mathematics  in  Petersburg,  Alex- 
ander Nikolaevitch  Strannoliubsky,  he  was  aston- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  67 

ished  at  the  quickness  with  which  I  grasped  and 
assimilated  the  conceptions  of  the  terms  and  deriva- 
tives, "just  as  if  I  had  known  them  before."  I  re- 
member that  this  was  precisely  the  way  in  which  he 
expressed  himself,  and  in  truth  the  fact  was  that  at 
the  moment  when  he  began  to  explain  to  me  these 
conceptions,  I  immediately  and  vividly  remembered 
that  all  this  had  stood  on  the  pages  of  Ostrograd- 
sky,  so  memorable  to  me,  and  the  conception  of  space 
seemed  to  have  been  familiar  to  me  for  a  long  time.1 

1  S.  K.'s  tutor,  Mr.  Mal6vitch,  says  that  when  he  first  knew 
her  she  exhibited  rare  understanding,  a  power  of  quickly  mas- 
tering whatever  was  taught  her,  and  that  she  always  knew  her 
lessons  well.  During  the  first  lessons  in  mathematics  which 
he  gave  her  he  did  not  observe  in  her  any  special  capacity  in 
that  direction ;  she  was  like  all  his  previous  girl  pupils  in  that 
respect.  "  One  day,  after  dinner,  the  General  asked  his  favo- 
rite daughter :  '  Well,  Sofa,  have  you  taken  a  fancy  to  arith- 
metic?' 'No,  papa/  she  replied.  Less  than  four  months 
later  my  pupil,  in  reply  to  nearly  the  same  question  from  her 
father,  answered:  'Yes,  papa,  I  love  to  study  arithmetic.  It 
gives  me  great  pleasure.'  Three  or  four  years  of  uniformly 
successful  study  passed  without  any  noteworthy  episode;  but 
when  we  got  to  geometry,  to  the  relations  of  the  circumference 
of  a  circle  to  its  diameter,  my  pupil,  in  explaining  what  I  had 
told  her  in  the  preceding  lesson,  to  my  amazement  reached  the 
same  goal  by  an  entirely  different  road,  and  by  special  com- 
binations of  her  own."  Mr.  MaleVitch  admits  that,  when  he 
pointed  out  to  her  the  somewhat  circuitous  road  which  she  had 
taken,  the  young  mathematician  flushed  up  and  began  to  cry. 
"But,"  he  adds,  "those  were  the  first  and  the  last  tears  which 
my  pupil  shed  over  her  lessons  in  the  whole  nine  years  during 
which  I  taught  her." 

— "  Recollections  of  Sophia  Kovalevsky,"  by  1. 1.  MaleVitch. 


VI 


MY  attachment  to  my  other  uncle,  my  mother's 
brother,  Feodor  Feodorovitch  Schubert,  was  of 
an  entirely  different  nature. 

This  uncle,  the  only  son  of  my  deceased  grand- 
father,1 was  considerably  younger  than  my  mother; 
he  lived  permanently  in  Petersburg,  and,  in  his  qual- 
ity of  sole  male  representative  of  the  Schubert  family, 
he  enjoyed  the  unbounded  adoration  of  all  his  sisters, 
and  of  numerous  aunts  and  cousins,  all  unmarried 
spinsters. 

His  arrival  to  visit  us  in  the  country  was  regarded 
as  a  real  event.  I  was  nine  years  old  when  he  came 
to  us  for  the  first  time.  Uncle's  coming  had  been 
talked  about  for  many  weeks  in  advance.  The  best 
room  in  the  house  was  assigned  to  him,  and  mama 
herself  saw  to  it  that  the"  most  comfortable  furniture 
was  placed  in  it.  The  carriage  was  sent  to  meet  him 
at  the  capital  of  the  government,  one  hundred  and 
fifty  versts  distant ;  and  in  the  carriage  were  placed  a 
fur  coat,  a  fur  lap-robe,  and  a  plaid,  that  uncle  might 
not  take  cold,  as  it  was  late  in  the  autumn. 

1  Sophia  Koval6vsky's  grandfather,  Fe6dor  Feodorovitch 
Schubert,  general  of  infantry,  was  a  fine  mathematician,  and 
was  at  the  head  of  the  Topographical  Corps.  His  father  was  still 
more  noted  as  a  mathematician,  being  an  astronomer,  at  the 
end  of  the  last  century. —  "S.  V.  Koval6vsky,"  published  by  the 
Mathematical  Society  of  the  Moscow  University. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  69 

All  of  a  sudden,  on  the  eve  of  the  day  when  uncle 
was  expected,  we  looked  out,  and  behold,  driving  up 
to  the  porch,  came  a  simple  peasant  cart,  harnessed 
to  three  post-horses,  regular  old  nags,  and  out  of  it 
leaped  a  young  man  in  a  light  city  overcoat,  with  a 
leather  traveling-bag  slung  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Good  heavens !  Why,  it 's  brother  Fedya ! "  cried 
mama,  as  she  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  Uncle,  uncle  has  come ! "  resounded  through  the 
whole  house,  and  we  all  ran  out  into  the  ante-cham- 
ber to  welcome  the  guest. 

"  Fedya,  my  poor  dear !  how  cotild  you  come  with 
relay  horses  ?  Did  n't  you  meet  the  carriage  we  sent 
for  you  ?  You  must  be  jolted  to  pieces,"  said  mama, 
in  a  voice  of  compassion,  as  she  embraced  her  brother. 

It  appeared  that  uncle  had  set  out  from  Petersburg 
twenty-four  hours  earlier  than  he  had  intended. 

"  Christ  be  with  thee,  Liza ! "  he  said,  laughing  and 
wiping  the  drops  of  ice  from  his  mustache  before  he 
kissed  his  sister.  "I  had  no  idea  that  you  would 
make  such  a  turmoil  over  my  coming!  Why  should 
you  send  for  me  ?  Am  I  an  old  woman  that  I  cannot 
travel  one  hundred  and  fifty  versts  in  a  post-cart  ? " 

Uncle  spoke  in  a  deep,  agreeable,  tenor  voice,  with 
a  rather  peculiar  lisp.  Apparently  he  was  still  quite 
a  young  man.  His  closely  cut  chestnut  hair  framed 
his  head  in  a  thick,  velvety  mass,  like  beaver  fur ;  his 
red  cheeks  were  shining  with  cold,  his  brown  eyes 
were  warm  and  merry  in  their  gaze,  and  a  set  of 
large,  white  teeth  peeped  out  every  moment  from  be- 
tween his  full,  brilliantly  red  lips,  surrounded  by 
handsome  whiskers. 

"What  a  fine,  dashing  fellow  uncle  is!  He  's  a 
dear!"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  gazed  rapturously  at 
him. 


70  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

"Who  is  this  —  Aniuta?"  asked  uncle,  pointing  at 
me. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Fedya?  Aniuta  is 
quite  a  grown  girl  already.  That  is  only  S6nya  ! " 
mama  corrected  him,  in  a  hurt  voice. 

"  Goodness,  how  your  daughters  have  grown ! 
Look  out,  Liza,  if  you  don't  take  care  you  '11  be  set 
down  among  the  old  people ! "  he  said,  laughingly,  as 
he  kissed  me.  I  felt  an  involuntary  shame,  and 
blushed  all  over  at  his  kiss. 

At  dinner  uncle  occupied  the  place  of  honor,  beside 
mama,  of  course.  He  ate  with  great  appetite,  which 
did  not,  however,  prevent  his  talking  the  whole  time, 
without  cessation.  He  narrated  divers  Petersburg 
news  and  bits  of  gossip,  which  often  amused  all,  and 
broke  out  into  hearty,  merry,  ringing  laughter  him- 
self. Every  one  listened  to  him  with  great  attention  ; 
even  papa  treated  him  with  much  respect,  without  a 
shadow  of  that  haughty,  patronizingly  scornful  man- 
ner which  he  so  frequently  used  with  young  relatives 
who  came  to  visit  us,  and  which  the  latter  disliked 
extremely. 

The  more  I  looked  at  my  new  uncle  the  more  he 
pleased  me.  He  had  managed  to  bathe  and  change 
his  clothes,  and  no  one,  to  look  at  his  fresh,  healthy 
face,  would  have  guessed  that  he  was  just  from  a 
journey.  His  short  coat,  of  thick  English  material, 
opening  widely,  sat  particularly  well  on  him,  not  at 
all  as  on  other  people.  But  his  hands  pleased  me 
most  of  all  —  large,  white,  well-cared-for  hands,  with 
shining  nails,  like  large  pink  almonds.  I  never  took 
my  eyes  from  him  during  the  whole  of  dinner,  and  I 
even  forgot  to  eat,  so  absorbed  was  I  in  scrutinizing 
him. 

After  dinner  uncle  seated  himself  on  the  little  cor- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  71 

ner  divan  in  the  drawing-room  and  took  me  on  his 
knee. 

"Come,  let  '&  get  acquainted,  mademoiselle,  my 
niece ! "  said  he.  Uncle  began  to  question  me  as  to 
what  I  was  studying,  what  I  was  reading.  Children 
know  themselves,  generally,  much  better  than  grown 
people  imagine ;  they  know  their  own  strong  points 
and  their  weak  points.  Thus,  for  example,  I  knew 
perfectly  that  I  learned  my  lessons  well,  and  that 
every  one  considered  me  very  "advanced"  in  my 
studies  for  my  age.  Consequently  I  was  greatly 
pleased  when  uncle  took  it  into  his  head  to  question 
me  about  it,  and  I  answered  all  his  queries  willingly 
and  freely.  "  Here  's  a  clever  girl !  She  knows  all 
that  already  !  "  he  kept  repeating  every  moment. 

"  Uncle,  tell  me  something  now ! "  I  entreated  him, 
in  my  turn. 

"  Well,  here  goes ;  only  one  can't  tell  fairy  tales  to 
such  a  clever  young  lady  as  you,"  he  said,  jestingly. 
"  One  must  talk  to  you  only  of  serious  things."  So 
he  began  to  tell  me  about  infusoria,  about  marine 
alga3,  about  the  formation  of  coral  reefs.  Uncle  had 
not  been  out  of  the  university  very  long,  so  that  all 
this  information  was  still  fresh  in  his  memory.  He 
narrated  very  well,  and  it  pleased  him  that  I  listened 
with  so  much  attention,  with  eyes  opened  very  wide 
and  fixed  firmly  upon  him. 

After  this  first  day  the  same  thing  came  to  be  re- 
peated every  evening.  After  dinner  papa  and  mama 
went  off  to  doze  for  half  an  hour.  Uncle  had  nothing 
to  do.  He  would  sit  down  on  my  beloved  little  divan, 
take  me  on  his  knees,  and  begin  to  talk  to  me  about 
all  sorts  of  things.  He  proposed  that  the  other  chil- 
dren should  listen  also,  but  my  sister,  who  had  only 
just  freed  herself  from  the  school-room,  was  afraid  of 


72  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

lowering  her  dignity  as  a  grown-up  young  lady,  if 
she  listened  to  such  instructive  things,  "  interesting 
only  for  little  children."  My  brother  stood  about  and 
listened  once,  found  that  it  was  not  at  all  jolly,  and 
ran  off  to  play  at  horse. 

As  for  me,  our  "  scientific  lectures,"  as  uncle  jest- 
ingly termed  them,  became  inexpressibly  dear.  Those 
half -hours  after  dinner,  when  I  was  left  alone  with 
my  uncle,  were  the  best  part  of  the  whole  day  to 
me.  I  actually  adored  him ;  to  speak  frankly,  I  will 
not  swear  that  there  was  not  mingled  with  this  feel- 
ing a  certain  childish  falling  in  love,  of  which  little 
girls  are  much  more  capable  than  their  elders  suspect. 
I  felt  a  certain  confusion  every  time  that  I  had  to  ut- 
ter uncle's  name,  even  if  it  were  only  to  inquire,  "  Is 
uncle  at  home  ? "  If  any  one,  observing  at  dinner  that 
I  never  took  my  eyes  from  him,  asked  me,  "  Evidently 
you  are  very  fond  of  your  uncle,  Sofa  ? "  I  blushed  up 
to  my  ears  and  made  no  reply. 

I  hardly  saw  anything  of  him  all  day  long,  as  my 
life  was  almost  entirely  separated  from  the  life  of  the 
grown-up  members  of  the  family.  But  during  the 
whole  time  of  my  lessons,  the  whole  time  of  my  re- 
creation, my  constant  thought  was,  "  Won't  evening 
come  soon  ?  Shall  not  I  soon  be  with  uncle  ? " 

One  day,  while  he  was  staying  with  us,  some  neigh- 
boring landed  proprietors  came  to  see  us,  with  their 
daughter  Olga.  This  Olya1  was  the  only  little  girl  of 
my  own  age  whom  I  had  happened  to  meet.  How- 
ever, they  did  not  bring  her  to  see  us  very  often ;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  they  left  her  for  the  whole  day, 
and  she  sometimes  spent  the  night  with  us.  She  was 
a  very  merry  and  lively  little  girl,  and  although  our 
characters  and  tastes  were  very  dissimilar,  so  that  no 
1  Diminutive  for  Olga. — Trans. 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  73 

genuine  friendship  existed  between  us,  yet  I  was  gen- 
erally glad  to  have  her  come,  the  more  so  as,  in  honor 
of  the  occasion,  I  was  freed  from  my  lessons,  and 
given  a  whole  holiday. 

But  now,  when  I  saw  Olya,  my  first  thought  was, 
"  How  will  it  be  after  dinner  ?  "  The  greatest  charm 
of  my  conversation  with  my  uncle  consisted  precisely 
in  the  fact  that  we  were  left  alone  together,  that  I  had 
him  all  to  myself,  and  I  had  a  presentiment  that  the 
presence  of  stupid  little  Olya  would  spoil  everything. 

Consequently  I  greeted  my  friend  with  much  less 
pleasure  than  usual.  "Won't  they  take  her  away 
earlier  to-day?"  flashed  across  my  mind  constantly, 
with  secret  hope,  in  the  course  of  the  morning.  But 
no !  it  appeared  that  Olya  was  not  to  go  until  late  in 
the  evening.  What  was  to  be  done?  I  steeled  my 
heart,  and  determined  to  speak  frankly  to  my  friend 
and  beg  her  not  to  interfere  with  me. 

"Listen,  Olya,"  I  said  to  her,  in  an  insinuating 
voice,  "  I  will  play  with  you  all  day,  and  do  everything 
you  like,  but,  in  return,  do  me  the  favor  to  go  off 
somewhere  after  dinner  and  leave  me  in  peace.  I  al- 
ways talk  with  my  uncle  after  dinner,  and  we  don't 
want  you  at  all." 

Olya  agreed  to  my  proposal,  and  I  honorably  ful- 
filled my  part  of  the  agreement  all  day  long.  I  played 
all  the  games  that  she  could  invent,  assumed  all  the 
parts  which  she  assigned  to  me,  turned  from  a  lady 
into  a  cook,  and  from  a  cook  back  into  a  lady,  at  her 
first  word  of  command.  At  last  we  were  called  to  din- 
ner. At  dinner  I  sat  as  on  needles.  "  Will  Olya  keep 
her  word  ? "  I  pondered,  and  I  cast  uneasy,  furtive 
glances  at  my  friend,  reminding  her  of  our  compact 
by  significant  looks. 

After  dinner  I  kissed  papa's  and  mama's  hands  as 


74  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

usual,  and  then  pressed  close  to  uncle,  and  waited 
to  hear  what  he  would  say. 

"  "Well,  little  girl,  are  we  to  have  our  chat  to-day  ? " 
asked  uncle,  pinching  my  chin  affectionately.  I  fairly 
leaped  for  joy,  and,  merrily  grasping  his  hand,  was 
preparing  to  set  off  with  him  for  our  wonted  place. 
But  all  at  once  I  perceived  that  faithless  Olya  was 
following  us. 

It  appeared  that  my  stipulations  had  had  the  effect 
of  ruining  things.  It  is  very  possible  that  if  I  had 
said  nothing  to  her,  when  she  saw  me  and  my  uncle 
preparing  to  talk  seriously,  she  would  have  made 
haste  to  flee  from  us,  as  she  cherished  a  saving  terror 
of  everything  that  smacked  of  instruction.  But  see- 
ing that  I  prized  my  conversation  with  my  uncle,  and 
that  I  wished  to  get  rid  of  her  at  any  price,  she  took 
it  into  her  head  that  we  were  certainly  going  to  talk 
about  something  very  interesting,  and  she  wished  to 
listen  also.  "  Can  I  go  with  you  ? "  she  asked,  in  a 
voice  of  entreaty,  raising  her  lovely  blue  eyes  to  my 
uncle. 

"  Of  course  you  can,  my  dear,"  replied  uncle,  and 
looked  at  her  very  graciously,  evidently  admiring  her 
pretty,  rosy  face. 

I  cast  a  glance  of  wrathful  disapproval  on  Olya,  but 
it  did  not  confuse  her  in  the  least. 

"  But  Olya  certainly  knows  nothing  about  these 
things.  She  will  not  understand  anything  anyway/' 
I  ventured  to  remark  in  an  angry  voice.  But  this 
effort  to  rid  myself  of  my  intrusive  friend  had  no 
result. 

"Well,  then,  to-day  we  will  talk  of  matters  in  a 
more  simple  way,  so  that  they  may  be  interesting  to 
Olya,"  said  uncle  good-naturedly;  and  taking  us  both 
by  the  hand,  he  set  out  with  us  for  the  little  divan. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  75 

I  walked  along  in  sullen  silence.  This  conversa- 
tion of  three,  in  which  uncle  was  going  to  talk  for 
Olya,  taking  into  consideration  her  tastes  and  her 
understanding,  was  not  in  the  least  what  I  wished. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  something  had  been  taken  from 
me  which  belonged  to  me  by  right,  which  was  invio- 
lable and  precious. 

"Come,  Sofa,  climb  up  on  my  knee,"  said  uncle, 
evidently  quite  unconscious  of  my  evil  frame  of 
mind. 

But  I  felt  so  hurt  that  this  proposal  did  not  soften 
me  in  the  least. 

"  I  won't ! "  I  answered  angrily,  and  going  off  to  a 
corner  I  sulked. 

Uncle  stared  at  me  with  astonished,  laughing  eyes. 
I  do  not  know  whether  he  understood  what  a  feeling 
of  jealousy  was  stirring  in  my  soul,  and  whether  he 
wished  to  tease  me ;  but  he  suddenly  turned  to  Olya 
and  said  to  her,  "Well,  if  Sonya  does  n't  wish  it,  do 
you  sit  on  my  knee." 

Olya  did  not  force  him  to  repeat  this  invitation, 
and  before  I  had  recovered  myself,  before  I  had  suc- 
ceeded in  realizing  what  was  happening,  she  had 
taken  my  place  on  my  uncle's  knee.  I  had  not  in 
the  least  expected  this.  It  had  never  entered  my 
head  that  matters  would  take  that  dreadful  turn.  It 
seemed  to  me,  literally,  as  if  the  earth  were  giving 
way  under  my  feet. 

I  was  too  astounded  to  give  voice  to  any  protest; 
all  I  could  do  was  to  stare,  with  widely  opened  eyes, 
at  my  happy  friend;  and  she,  a  little  confused,  but 
much  pleased  nevertheless,  settled  herself  on  uncle's 
knee  as  if  there  were  nothing  the  matter.  Setting  her 
little  mouth  in  a  droll  grimace,  she  tried  to  commu- 
nicate to  her  childish,  chubby  face  an  expression  of 


76  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

seriousness  and  attention.  She  was  blushing  all 
over,  even  her  little  neck,  and  her  little  bare  arms 
were  crimson. 

I  stared  and  stared  at  her,  and  suddenly — I  swear 
that  even  now  I  do  not  know  how  it  happened — 
something  terrible  took  place.  It  was  exactly  as  if 
some  one  were  urging  me  on.  Without  stopping  to 
think  what  I  was  doing,  I  suddenly,  quite  unexpectedly 
to  myself,  fastened  my  teeth  in  her  bare,  plump  little 
arm,  somewhat  above  the  elbow,  and  bit  her  until  I 
drew  blood. 

My  attack  was  so  sudden,  so  unforeseen,  that  for  a 
moment  all  three  of  us  remained  stupefied,  and  merely 
stared  at  each  other  in  silence.  Then  all  at  once  Olya 
gave  a  piercing  shriek,  and  her  scream  brought  us  all 
to  ourselves. 

Shame,  wild,  bitter  shame,  took  possession  of  me. 
I  fled  headlong  from  the  room.  "Hateful,  wicked 
little  girl ! "  my  uncle's  angry  voice  called  after  me. 

My  customary  refuge  in  all  the  great  griefs  of  my 
life  was  the  room  which  had  formerly  belonged  to 
Marya  Vasilievna,  and  which  was  now  allotted  to  our 
former  nurse.  There  I  now  sought  safety.  Hiding 
my  face  on  the  good  old  woman's  knees,  I  sobbed  for 
a  long  time;  and  nurse,  seeing  me  in  this  condition, 
lavished  endearing  names  upon  me  without  inquiring 
what  was  the  matter,  but  only  stroking  my  head. 

"  God  be  with  thee,  my  dear  bright  little  one.  Calm 
thyself,  my  own,"  she  said,  and  in  my  excited  state  of 
mind  it  was  very  soothing  to  me  to  be  able  thus  to 
have  a  good  cry  on  her  knees. 

Luckily  my  governess  was  not  at  home  that  even- 
ing. She  was  gone  on  a  visit  to  some  of  our  neigh- 
bors for  a  few  days.  Therefore  no  one  thought  of  me. 
I  could  weep  my  fill  with  nurse.  When  I  had  become 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  77 

a  little  calmer  she  gave  me  some  tea,  and  put  me  in 
the  little  bed,  where  I  immediately  fell  into  a  dull, 
leaden  sleep. 

But  when  I  awoke  on  the  following  morning,  and 
suddenly  remembered  what  had  taken  place  the  night 
before,  I  again  felt  so  ashamed  that  it  seemed  to  me 
I  should  never  dare  to  look  any  one  in  the  face  again. 
However,  everything  passed  off  better  than  I  had 
expected.  Olya  had  been  taken  home  the  night  be- 
fore. Evidently  she  had  been  magnanimous  enough 
not  to  complain  of  me.  It  was  evident  from  the  faces 
of  all  the  people  in  the  house  that  they  knew  nothing 
about  it.  No  one  reproached  me  with  what  had  hap- 
pened on  the  day  before ;  no  one  teased  me.  Even 
uncle  pretended  that  nothing  of  particular  impor- 
tance had  taken  place. 

Still,  it  is  strange  that  from  that  day  forth  my  feel- 
ings toward  my  uncle  entirely  changed  their  charac- 
ter. Our  after-dinner  conversations  were  not  renewed. 
He  returned  to  Petersburg  shortly  after  this  episode, 
and  although  we  often  met  afterward,  and  he  was  al- 
ways very  kind  to  me,  and  I  loved  him  greatly,  yet  I 
never  more  felt  for  him  my  former  adoration. 


VII 

MY  SISTEE 

BUT  incomparably  greater  than  all  the  other  influ- 
ences which  were  reflected  in  my  childhood  was 
the  influence  upon  me  of  my  sister  Aniuta. 

The  feeling  which  I  cherished  for  her  from  my  very 
infancy  was  extremely  complicated.  I  admired  her 
beyond  measure,  I  obeyed  her  implicitly  in  every- 
thing, and  felt  very  much  flattered  every  time  that  she 
permitted  me  to  take  part  in  anything  in  which  she 
was  concerned.  I  would  have  gone  through  fire  and 
water  for  my  sister,  and  at  the  same  time,  in  spite  of 
my  warm  attachment  to  her,  there  nested  in  the 
depths  of  my  soul  a  grain  of  that  particular  sort  of 
envy  which  we  so  often,  almost  unconsciously,  feel 
toward  people  who  are  very  near  to  us,  whom  we 
admire  greatly,  and  whom  we  would  like  to  imitate  in 
all  things. 

Nevertheless  it  was  a  sin  to  envy  my  sister,  for  her 
lot  was  far  from  being  a  happy  one,  to  tell  the  truth. 

My  parents  had  removed  to  the  country  for  perma- 
nent residence  precisely  at  the  time  when  she  began 
to  emerge  from  childhood. 

Not  long  after  our  removal,  the  Polish  insurrection 
broke  out,  and  as  our  estate  lay  on  the  very  borders 
of  Lithuania  and  Russia,  the  echoes  of  that  upris- 
ing concerned  us.  The  majority  of  the  neighboring 
landed  proprietors,  and  especially  the  wealthiest  and 

78 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  79 

most  cultivated,  were  Poles.  It  appeared  that  many 
of  them  were  more  or  less  seriously  compromised. 
The  estates  of  some  of  them  were  confiscated.  Nearly 
all  of  them  were  subjected  to  fines.  Many  voluntarily 
abandoned  their  farms  and  went  abroad.  In  the 
years  which  followed  the  Polish  insurrection,  no 
young  people  at  all  were  to  be  seen  in  our  parts ;  for 
some  reason  or  other  they  had  all  flitted  away 
somewhere.  No  one  was  left  but  children,  old  people, 
— inoffensive,  frightened  creatures,  afraid  of  their  own 
shadows, — and  divers  new-comers  in  the  shape  of  offi- 
cials, merchants,  and  petty  gentry. 

Of  course,  under  such  conditions,  life  in  the  country 
was  not  especially  gay  for  a  young  girl.  Moreover 
all  Aniuta's  previous  education  had  been  of  such  a 
sort  that  no  taste  for  the  country  could  develop  in  her. 
She  did  not  like  to  walk,  or  to  gather  mushrooms,  or 
to  row.  Added  to  this,  the  leader  in  all  such  pleasures 
was  always  the  English  governess,  and  the  antagonism 
which  existed  between  her  and  Aniuta  was  so  great 
that  as  soon  as  one  of  them  made  any  proposition  the 
other  immediately  opposed  it.  One  summer,  it  is  true, 
Aniuta  had  a  passion  for  riding  on  horseback,  but  this 
was,  apparently,  chiefly  an  imitation  of  the  heroine  in 
some  romance  which  interested  her  at  the  time.  As 
no  suitable  companion  could  be  found,  she  soon 
wearied  of  these  solitary  rides  in  the  company  of  a 
tiresome  coachman ;  and  her  saddle-horse,  which  she 
had  christened  by  the  romantic  name  of  "  Frida,"  soon 
passed  to  more  humble  duties,  to  carrying  the  over- 
seer through  the  fields,  and  again  became  known  by 
its  former  name  of  "  Little  Pigeon." 

There  could  be  no  question  of  my  sister  occupying 
herself  with  the  housekeeping;  such  a  suggestion 
would  have  struck  her  and  all  around  her  as  in  the 


80  S6NYA  KOVALtfVSKY 

highest  degree  absurd.  Her  whole  education  had 
been  directed  to  the  end  of  making  her  a  brilliant  so- 
ciety woman.  She  had  been  accustomed,  ever  since 
the  age  of  seven,  to  be  the  queen  of  all  the  children's 
balls,  to  which  she  was  often  taken  when  my  parents 
lived  in  large  towns.  Papa  was  very  proud  of  her 
childish  triumphs,  of  which  many  traditions  circu- 
lated in  our  family. 

"  When  our  Aniuta  grows  up  she  '11  be  fit  to  take 
straight  to  the  Court !  She  would  turn  the  head  of 
any  Crown  Prince,"  papa  was  accustomed  to  say, 
jestingly,  of  course ;  but  the  misfortune  was  that  not 
only  we  younger  children,  but  Aniuta  herself,  took  the 
words  in  earnest. 

In  her  early  youth  my  sister  was  very  handsome  — 
tall,  slender,  with  a  beautiful  complexion,  and  a  mass 
of  light  hair,  she  might  almost  be  called  an  ideal 
beauty,  and  she  possessed,  in  addition,  a  great  deal  of 
special  charm.  She  understood  extremely  well  that 
she  could  play  the  leading  part  in  any  society.  And 
behold,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  was  condemned  to  the 
country,  to  the  wilds,  to  boredom. 

She  often  came  to  papa  and  reproached  him,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  for  keeping  her  in  the  country.  At 
first  my  father  got  rid  of  her  with  jests,  but  sometimes 
he  condescended  to  explanations,  and  very  rationally 
demonstrated  to  her  that,  in  the  present  troublous 
times,  it  was  the  duty  of  every  landed  proprietor  to 
live  on  his  estate.  To  abandon  the  estate  at  the  pres- 
ent moment  was  equivalent  to  ruining  the  family. 
Aniuta  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  these  arguments. 
She  only  felt  that  she  was  no  better  off  for  all  that, 
that  her  youth  would  not  be  repeated.  After  such 
conversations  she  went  off  to  her  own  room  and  wept 
bitterly. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  81 

But  once  a  year,  in  the  winter,  father  generally 
took  my  mother  and  sister  to  Petersburg,  for  a  six 
weeks'  visit  at  our  aunts'.  But  these  trips,  which 
cost  a  quantity  of  money,  did  no  real  good.  They 
only  fired  Aniuta's  taste  for  pleasures,  and  afforded 
it  no  gratification.  The  month  in  Petersburg  al- 
ways passed  so  quickly  that  she  had  not  time  to  col- 
lect herself.  She  could  not  meet  a  man  competent  to 
direct  her  mind  to  serious  matters,  in  the  society  to 
which  she  was  introduced;  neither  did  any  suitable 
offers  of  marriage  present  themselves.  They  fitted 
her  out  with  toilettes,  took  her  three  or  four  times  to 
the  theater,  or  to  a  ball  at  the  Club  of  the  Nobility. 
One  of  her  relatives  gave  an  evening  party  in  her 
honor.  She  heard  compliments  on  her  beauty.  Then, 
just  as  she  had  begun  to  enter  into  the  real  spirit  of 
the  thing,  she  was  taken  back  to  Palibino,  and  again 
there  began  for  her  solitude,  idleness,  tedium,  roaming 
hour  after  hour  from  one  corner  to  another  of  the 
huge  rooms  in  our  Palibino  house,  living  over  again 
in  fancy  the  recent  joys,  and  passionate,  fruitless 
dreams  of  new  triumphs  in  the  same  career. 

In  order,  in  some  degree,  to  fill  up  the  void  of  her 
life,  my  sister  was  constantly  inventing  artificial  di- 
versions, and,  as  the  life  of  the  members  of  the  house- 
hold was  also  very  poor  in  inward  contents,  every  one 
in  the  house  generally  flung  themselves  eagerly  into 
each  new  scheme  of  hers,  as  a  pretext  for  discussions 
and  excitement.  Some  blamed  her,  others  sympa- 
thized with  her,  but  she  provided  for  all  an  agreeable 
contrast  to  the  usual  monotony  of  life. 

When  Aniuta  was  about  fifteen  years  of  age  she 
exhibited  her  first  act  of  independence  by  pouncing 
upon  all  the  novels  in  our  country  library,  and  de- 
vouring an  incredible  number  of  them.  Fortunately 


82  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

there  were  no  "  bad  "  romances  in  our  house,  though 
there  was  no  lack  of  inferior  and  talentless  works. 
But  the  chief  wealth  of  our  library  consisted  in  a 
mass  of  old  English  romances,  principally  historical, 
whose  action  took  place  in  the  middle  ages,  in  the 
period  of  chivalry.  These  novels  were  a  real  treasure 
trove  for  my  sister.  They  introduced  her  into  a  world 
of  wonders  hitherto  unknown  to  her,  and  gave  a  new 
direction  to  her  imagination.  The  same  thing  hap- 
pened with  her  which  had  happened  many  centuries 
previously  with  Don  Quixote  —  she  believed  in  the 
knights,  and  imagined  she  was  a  young  damsel  of  the 
middle  ages. 

Unfortunately,  also,  our  country  house,  a  huge  and 
massive  structure,  with  towers  and  gothic  windows, 
was  built  somewhat  in  the  style  of  a  castle  of  the 
middle  ages.  During  her  knightly  period,  my  sister 
could  not  write  a  letter  without  placing  at  the  head 
of  it,  Chateau  Palibino.  The  upper  chamber  in  the 
tower,  which  had  long  been  unused,  so  that  even  the 
winding  stair  which  led  to  it  had  become  rotten  and 
decrepit,  she  ordered  to  be  cleaned  of  dust  and  spiders' 
webs,  hung  it  with  old  rugs  and  weapons,  which  she 
had  unearthed  somewhere  among  the  rubbish  in  the 
garret,  and  converted  it  into  her  permanent  abiding- 
place.  I  can  see  her  now,  with  her  slender,  graceful 
figure  clad  in  a  closely  fitting  white  gown,  with  two 
heavy  braids  of  light  hair  hanging  below  her  waist. 
In  this  attire  my  sister  would  sit  at  her  embroidery 
frame,  embroidering  the  family  coat-of-arms  on  can- 
vas with  beads — the  arms  of  King  Matthew  Corvinus 
—  and  gazing  out  of  the  window  on  the  highway  to 
see  whether  a  knight  were  not  approaching. 

"  Sister  Anne,  sister  Anne !  do  you  see  any  one  coming  ?  " 
"  I  see  only  the  dust  that 's  blowing  and  the  grass  that 's 
growing ! " 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  83 

Instead  of  the  knight  came  the  chief  of  rural  policer 
came  the  revenue  officials,  came  Jews  to  buy  father's 
vodka,  and  oxen,  but  there  was  no  knight. 

At  the  very  moment  when  she  began,  unconsciously, 
to  set  her  teeth  on  edge  with  romances  of  chivalry, 
the  wonderfully  exalted  romance  "  Harold  "  fell  into 
her  hands. 

After  the  battle  of  Hastings,  Edith  "  Swan's  Neck  " 
found  among  the  slain  the  body  of  her  beloved  King 
Harold.  Just  before  the  battle  he  had  broken  his 
oath,  a  mortal  sin,  and  had  died  unrepentant.  His 
soul  was  condemned  to  eternal  torment. 

After  that  day  Edith  vanished  from  her  native  land, 
and  none  of  her  kinsmen  heard  anything  more  about 
her.  Many  years  elapsed,  and  people  were  beginning 
to  forget  Edith. 

But  on  the  opposite  coast  of  England,  amid  wild  cliffs 
and  forests,  stands  a  convent,  renowned  for  its  severe 
rules,  where  has  dwelt  for  many  years  a  nun  who  has 
taken  upon  herself  the  vow  of  eternal  silence,  and  who 
enraptures  the  whole  community  with  the  feats  of  her 
piety.  She  knows  no  rest,  either  day  or  night;  in 
the  early  morning  hours  and  at  dead  midnight  her 
kneeling  figure  is  to  be  seen  before  the  crucifix  of 
'Christ  in  the  convent  chapel.  Wherever  there  is  any 
duty  to  be  performed,  and  aid  to  be  rendered,  the 
sufferings  of  others  to  be  alleviated,  she  is  the  first  to 
make  her  appearance.  Not  a  single  person  dies  in 
the  neighborhood  without  seeing  the  tall  form  of  the 
pale  nun  bending  over  his  deathbed,  without  feeling 
his  brow,  covered  with  the  death  sweat,  touched  by 
her  bloodless  lips,  sealed  by  the  terrible  vow  of  eternal 
silence. 

But  no  one  knows  who  she  is,  or  whence  she  came. 
Twenty  years  before,  a  woman  enveloped  in  a  black 
cloak  had  presented  herself  at  the  convent  gates,  and, 


84  S6NYA  KOVALtiVSKY 

after  a  long  and  mysterious  conference  with  the  ab- 
bess, had  settled  there  forever. 

That  abbess  had  died  long  since.  The  pale  nun 
still  flitted  about  there  like  a  shadow,  but  none  of 
those  who  now  dwelt  in  the  convent  had  ever  heard 
the  sound  of  her  voice. 

The  young  nuns,  and  all  the  poor  folks  of  the  coun- 
try round  about  revered  her  as  a  saint.  Mothers 
brought  their  sick  children  to  her,  that  she  might 
touch  them  with  her  hand,  in  the  hope  that  they 
would  be  healed  by  her  touch.  But  there  were  people 
who  maintained  that,  in  her  youth,  she  must  have  been 
a  great  sinner,  since  she  was  obliged  to  expiate  the 
past  by  such  a  penance. 

At  last,  after  many,  many  years  of  self-sacrificing 
toil,  the  hour  of  her  death  arrives.  All  the  nuns, 
young  and  old,  are  bending  over  her  deathbed.  The 
mother  abbess  herself,  who  has  long  since  lost  the  use 
of  her  feet,  has  ordered  them  to  carry  her  to  the  dying 
woman's  cell. 

Then  the  priest  enters.  By  the  authority  delegated 
to  him  by  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  he  releases  the  dy- 
ing woman  from  her  self-imposed  vow  of  silence,  and 
adjures  her  to  tell  him,  before  she  dies,  who  she  is ; 
what  sin,  what  crime,  weighs  on  her  conscience. 

The  dying  woman,  with  great  effort,  sits  up  in  bed. 
Her  bloodless  lips  seem  to  have  turned  to  stone  with 
their  long  silence,  and  to  have  become  unused  to  hu- 
man speech.  For  several  seconds  they  move  convul- 
sively and  mechanically  before  she  can  succeed  in 
uttering  a  single  sound.  At  last,  obeying  the  com- 
mand of  her  confessor,  the  nun  begins  to  speak,  but 
her  voice,  unused  for  twenty  years,  sounds  choked 
and  unnatural. 

"  I  am  Edith,"  she  utters  with  difficulty.  "  I  am  the 
wife  of  the  dead  King  Harold." 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  85 

At  the  sound  of  that  name,  accursed  by  all  devout 
servants  of  the  Church,  the  timid  nuns  make  the  sign 
of  the  cross  in  terror.  But  the  priest  says : 

"  My  daughter,  on  earth  thou  hast  loved  a  great 
sinner.  King  Harold  is  cursed  by  our  holy  universal 
mother,  the  Catholic  Church,  and  there  is  no  forgive- 
ness for  him  forever;  he  must  burn  forever  in  the 
fires  of  hell.  But  God  has  seen  thy  deeds  of  piety  for 
many  years.  He  has  valued  thy  repentance  and  thy 
tears.  Go  in  peace.  In  the  heavenly  habitations  an- 
other, a  deathless  bridegroom,  awaits  thee."  The 
sunken,  wax-like  cheeks  of  the  dying  woman  sud- 
denly become  crimson.  A  passionate,  feverish  light 
flashes  up  in  her  eyes,  which  seem  to  have  faded  out 
long  ago. 

"  I  want  no  paradise  without  Harold ! "  she  cries,  to 
the  horror  of  all  the  nuns  who  are  present.  "  If  Har- 
old is  not  forgiven,  let  not  God  summon  me  to  his 
habitation ! " 

The  nuns  stand  silent,  rooted  to  the  spot  with  horror, 
but  Edith,  rising  from  her  bed  with  supernatural 
strength,  throws  herself  on  her  knees  before  the 
crucifix. 

"  Great  God ! "  she  cries,  with  her  broken,  hardly 
human  voice,  "for  one  moment  of  thy  Son's  suffer- 
ing thou  hast  removed  from  all  mankind  the  seal  of 
original  sin.  But  I  have  been  dying  every  day  for 
twenty  years,  dying  every  hour  a  slow  death  of  tor- 
ture. Thou  hast  seen,  thou  knowest  my  sufferings. 
If  I  have  deserved  anything  in  thy  sight  through 
them,  forgive  Harold !  Show  me  a  sign  before  I  die. 
When  we  recite  'Our  Father,'  let  the  candle  which 
stands  before  the  crucifix  light  of  itself;  then  shall  I 
know  that  Harold  is  forgiven." 

The  priest  recites  the  "Our  Father."  He  utters 
every  word  solemnly,  distinctly.  The  nuns,  both 


86  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

young  and  old,  repeat  the  sacred  prayer  after  him. 
There  is  not  one  among  them  who  is  not  penetrated 
with  pity  for  the  unhappy  Edith ;  who  would  not  wil- 
lingly give  her  own  life  to  save  the  soul  of  Harold. 

Edith  lies  prone  upon  the  floor.  Her  body  is  al- 
ready quivering  with  the  throes  of  death,  and  all  her 
life,  which  is  on  the  point  of  extinction,  is  concen- 
trated in  her  eyes,  which  are  riveted  on  the  crucifix. 

Still  the  candle  does  not  light. 

The  priest  has  recited  the  prayer.  "Amen,"  he 
says,  in  a  sad  voice. 

The  miracle  has  not  taken  place ;  Harold  is  not  for- 
given. 

A  curse  bursts  from  the  mouth  of  the  pious  Edith, 
and  her  eyes  die  out  forever. 

This  romance  brought  about  a  complete  change  in 
my  sister's  inner  life.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
the  questions  presented  themselves  clearly  to  her 
imagination:  "Is  there  another  life?  Does  all  end 
with  death  ?  Do  two  loving  hearts  meet  and  recog- 
nize each  other  in  the  world  beyond  ? " 

With  that  unrestrained  vigor  which  she  put  into 
everything  she  did,  my  sister  saturated  herself  with 
these  questions  as  if  she  were  the  first  person  who 
had  ever  encountered  them,  and  she  began  to  think, 
in  the  utmost  seriousness,  that  she  could  not  live  if 
she  did  not  find  answers  to  them. 

As  I  now  recall  the  facts,  it  was  a  splendid  summer 
evening;  the  sun  was  already  setting,  the  heat  had 
decreased,  and  everything  in  the  atmosphere  was 
wonderfully  calm  and  pleasant.  The  perfume  of 
roses  and  new-mown  hay  was  wafted  in  through  the 
open  windows.  From  the  farm  came  the  lowing  of 
the  cows,  the  bleating  of  the  sheep,  the  voice  of  the 
laborers  —  all  the  varied  sounds  of  a  summer  evening 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  87 

in  the  country  —  but  so  changed  and  softened  by  dis- 
tance that  their  harmonious  blending  only  height- 
ened the  sensation  of  stillness  and  repose. 

I  felt  particularly  light  and  cheerful  at  heart.  I 
managed  to  escape  for  a  moment  from  the  watchful 
eye  of  the  governess,  and  flew  up-stairs  like  an  arrow 
to  the  tower  to  see  what  my  sister  was  doing  there. 
And  what  did  I  behold  ? 

My  sister  was  lying  on  the  divan  with  unbound 
hair  all  flooded  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and 
sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break —  sobbing  so  that 
it  seemed  as  if  her  bosom  must  burst. 

I  was  terribly  frightened,  and  rushed  up  to  her. 
"Aniutotchka,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? "  But 
she  did  not  answer,  and  only  waved  her  hand  to  me 
to  signify  that  I  was  to  go  away  and  leave  her  in 
peace.  Of  course  I  only  began  to  beseech  her  the 
more  vigorously.  She  would  not  reply  for  a  long 
time;  but  at  last  she  rose  and  said  in  a  weak  voice 
which  seemed  to  me  thoroughly  exhausted : 

"  You  won't  understand  anyway.  I  am  not  crying 
over  myself,  but  over  all  of  us.  You  are  still  a  child 
you  need  not  think  about  serious  things,  and  I  was 
the  same ;  but  that  wonderful,  that  cruel  book  " —  she 
pointed  to  Bulwer's  romance  —  "has  made  me  look 
more  deeply  into  the  mystery  of  life.  Then  I  under- 
stood how  visionary  is  everything  for  which  we  strive. 
The  most  brilliant  happiness,  the  most  fervent  love 
— all  end  in  death.  And  what  awaits  us  afterward, 
and  whether  anything  awaits  us,  we  do  not  know, 
and  never,  never  shall  know.  Oh,  this  is  terrible, 
terrible ! " 

She  fell  to  sobbing  again,  and  buried  her  head  in 
the  cushions  of  the  divan. 

This  genuine  despair  of  a  sixteen-year-old  girl  for 


88  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

the  first  time  introduced  to  the  idea  of  death  by  the 
perusal  of  a  high-flown  English  novel,  these  pathetic, 
bookish  words  addressed  to  her  ten-year-old  sister — 
all  this  would  probably  have  made  a  grown  person 
smile.  But  my  heart  literally  stopped  beating  with  ter- 
ror, and  I  was  thoroughly  permeated  with  reverence 
for  the  importance  and  the  seriousness  of  the  thoughts 
which  were  engrossing  Aniuta.  All  the  beauty  of  the 
summer  evening  was  suddenly  obscured  for  me,  and  I 
even  felt  ashamed  of  the  causeless  happiness  which 
had  fiUed  my  being  to  overflowing  a  moment  earlier. 

"But  we  do  know  that  there  is  a  God,  and  that 
after  death  we  shall  go  to  him,"  I  made  an  effort  to 
say  nevertheless.  My  sister  looked  gently  at  me,  as  a 
grown-up  person  looks  at  a  child. 

"Yes;  you  still  preserve  your  pure  childish  faith. 
We  will  say  no  more  about  this,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
which  was  very  sad ;  but  which  at  the  same  time  was 
filled  to  overflowing  with  such  a  consciousness  of  supe- 
riority to  me  that  I  immediately  felt  ashamed  of  her 
words  for  some  reason  or  other. 

After  this  evening  a  great  change  took  place  in  my 
sister.  For  several  days  following  she  went  about 
with  a  gently  sad  demeanor,  as  if  expressing  in  her 
whole  person  renunciation  of  all  earthly  bliss.  Every- 
thing about  her  said  memento  mori.  The  knights  and 
the  beautiful  dames  with  their  tourneys  of  love  were 
forgotten.  What  is  the  use  of  loving,  of  wishing, 
when  all  is  to  end  in  death ! 

My  sister  did  not  touch  another  English  novel; 
she  had  conceived  a  dislike  for  all  of  them.  On  the 
other  hand  she  eagerly  devoured  "  The  Imitation  of 
Christ,"  and  decided  in  emulation  of  Saint  Thomas  a 
Kempis  to  stifle  dawning  doubts  by  self-castigation 
and  self-renunciation. 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  89 

With  the  servants  she  was  unprecedentedly  gentle 
and  condescending.  If  I  or  my  younger  brother 
asked  her  anything,  she  did  not  snarl  at  us  as  had 
been  her  habit  hitherto  at  times,  but  immediately 
yielded  to  us,  but  with  an  air  of  such  soul-crushing 
resignation  that  my  heart  contracted,  and  I  lost  all 
desire  for  cheerfulness. 

Every  one  in  the  house  was  filled  with  reverence 
for  her  pious  frame  of  mind,  and  treated  her  tenderly 
and  cautiously,  like  an  invalid  or  like  a  person  who 
has  suffered  a  heavy  affliction.  Only  the  governess 
shrugged  her  shoulders  incredulously,  and  papa  jested 
at  dinner  over  her  gloomy  aspect — "son  airtene"breux." 
But  my  sister  humbly  endured  all  father's  scoffing, 
and  treated  the  governess  with  an  exquisite  courtesy 
which  enraged  the  latter  more  than  roughness.  See- 
ing my  sister  in  this  state,  I  could  take  pleasure  in 
nothing.  I  was  even  ashamed  of  not  being  sufficiently 
depressed,  and  in  private  I  envied  the  strength  and 
depth  of  my  elder  sister's  feelings. 

This  mood  did  not  last  long,  however.  The  fifth 
of  September  was  approaching:  this  was  my  mother's 
name-day,  and  that  day  was  always  celebrated  in  our 
family  with  special  solemnity.  All  the  neighbors  for 
fifty  versts  round  about  came  to  our  house ;  as  many 
as  a  hundred  people  assembled,  and  something  special 
was  always  got  up  by  us  for  this  day :  fireworks,  tab- 
leaux-vivants,  or  private  theatricals.  The  prepara- 
tions of  course  were  begun  long  beforehand.  My 
mother  was  very  fond  of  these  private  theatricals, 
and  played  well  and  with  much  enthusiasm  herself. 
That  year  we  had  just  built  a  regular  stage,  quite 
in  proper  form,  with  side-scenes,  curtain,  and  dec- 
orations. In  the  neighborhood  there  were  several 
old,  thoroughbred  theater-goers  who  could  always  be 


90  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

enlisted  as  actors.  My  mother  was  very  fond  of 
private  theatricals,  but  now  that  she  had  a  grown-up 
daughter  she  felt  rather  ashamed  of  showing  too 
much  zeal  in  this  matter;  she  wished  to  have  every- 
thing arranged  as  if  for  Aniuta's  pleasure.  But  here 
Aniuta  had,  as  if  of  deliberate  purpose,  got  into  a 
conventual  frame  of  mind. 

I  remember  how  cautiously,  how  timidly  my  mother 
approached  her,  endeavoring  to  get  her  into  the  mood 
for  theatricals.  But  Aniuta  did  not  yield  at  once. 
At  first  she  displayed  great  disdain  for  the  whole 
scheme.  "What  a  fuss!  And  to  what  end?"  At 
last  she  consented,  with  the  air  of  yielding  to  the 
wishes  of  others. 

But  now  the  people  who  are  to  take  part  have 
arrived,  and  have  set  about  choosing  a  piece.  This, 
as  every  one  knows,  is  not  an  easy  matter;  the  play 
must  be  amusing  but  not  too  free,  nor  one  requiring 
too  elaborate  a  setting. 

This  year  they  fixed  upon  a  French  vaudeville,  "Les 
CEufs  de  Perette."  Aniuta  was  to  take  part  for  the 
first  time  in  private  theatricals  in  her  quality  of  a 
grown-up  young  lady.  Of  course  she  had  the  prin- 
cipal part.  The  rehearsals  began;  she  displayed 
wonderful  dramatic  talent.  And  lo !  the  fear  of  death, 
the  conflict  with  doubts,  the  terror  of  the  mysteri- 
ous beyond — all  fled.  From  morning  until  night 
Aniuta's  ringing  voice  resounded  through  the  house, 
as  she  sang  French  couplets. 

After  mama's  name-day  she  wept  bitterly  again,  but 
for  another  reason  —  because  father  would  not  yield 
to  her  urgent  entreaty  that  she  might  be  placed  in  the 
theatrical  school.  She  felt  that  her  vocation  in  life 
was  to  be  an  actress. 


VIII 

A  T  the  time  when  Aniuta  was  dreaming  of  knights, 
-£^-  and  weeping  bitter  tears  over  the  fate  of  Har- 
old and  Edith,  the  majority  of  the  intelligent  young 
people  in  the  rest  of  Russia  had  been  captured  by  an 
entirely  different  current,  by  wholly  different  ideals. 
Therefore  Aniuta's  impulses  may  appear  to  be  strange 
anachronisms.  But  the  nook  where  our  estate  was 
situated  lay  so  far  removed  from  all  centers,  such 
strong  and  lofty  walls  guarded  Palibino  from  the 
outside  world,  that  the  wave  of  new  currents  could 
only  reach  our  peaceful  inlet  a  long  while  after  it  had 
arisen  in  the  open  sea.  On  the  other  hand,  when 
these  new  currents  did  reach  the  shore  at  last  they  in- 
stantly seized  upon  Aniuta  and  bore  her  along  with 
them. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  how,  when,  and  in  what 
form  the  new  ideas  reached  our  house.  It  is  well- 
known  that  such  is  the  peculiarity  of  all  periods  of 
transition  —  to  leave  few  traces  behind  them.  For 
example,  a  paleontologist  studies  a  layer  of  a  geologi- 
cal section,  and  finds  in  it  a  mass  of  petrified  traces  of 
sharply  characterized  fauna  and  flora,  from  which  he 
can  construct  in  his  imagination  the  whole  picture  of 
creation  at  that  epoch ;  he  goes  one  layer  higher,  and 
there,  before  him,  lies  a  totally  different  formation, 
entirely  new  types ;  but  whence  they  have  come,  how 

91 


92  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

they  have  been  developed  from  those  which  preceded 
them,  he  cannot  say. 

The  petrified  specimens  of  fully  developed  types 
are  everywhere  found  in  abundance ;  all  museums  are 
stuffed  full  of  them,  but  the  paleontologist  is  bliss- 
fully happy  if  he  accidentally  succeeds  in  digging  up 
anywhere  a  skull,  a  few  teeth,  a  bit  of  detached  bone, 
of  some  transitional  type,  by  which  he  is  enabled  to 
reconstruct  in  his  scientific  imagination  the  road  by 
which  the  development  proceeded.  One  might  sup- 
pose that  nature  herself  zealously  erases  and  eradi- 
cates all  traces  of  her  work.  She  seems  proud  of 
perfect  specimens  of  her  handiwork,  in  which  she 
has  succeeded  in  incarnating  some  fully  developed 
thought,  but  she  pitilessly  annihilates  the  very  mem- 
ory of  her  first,  uncertain  efforts. 

The  inhabitants  of  Palibino  lived  on  peacefully  and 
quietly ;  they  grew  up  and  waxed  old ;  they  quarreled 
and  became  reconciled  to  each  other ;  by  way  of  pass- 
ing the  time  they  bickered  about  this  or  that  magazine 
article,  about  this  or  that  scientific  discovery,  being 
all  the  while  thoroughly  convinced,  nevertheless,  that 
all  these  questions  pertained  to  another  world,  wholly 
distinct  from  theirs,  and  that  they  would  never  have 
any  direct  contact  with  every-day  life.  And  all  of  a 
sudden,  no  one  could  say  how,  signs  were  revealed 
close  beside  them  of  some  strange  fermentation,  which 
was  indisputably  drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  and 
threatened  to  culminate  directly  in  a  line  with  their 
quiet,  patriarchal  existence.  And  the  danger  threat- 
ened not  from  one  quarter  only;  it  seemed  to  come 
from  all  points  at  once. 

It  may  be  said  that,  in  the  period  of  time  included 
between  the  years  1860  and  1870,  all  the  educated 
classes  of  Russian  society  were  occupied  exclusively 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  93 

with  one  question  —  the  family  discord  between  the 
old  and  the  young.  Ask  about  whatever  noble  family 
you  would  at  that  time,  you  always  heard  one  and  the 
same  thing  —  the  parents  had  quarreled  with  the  chil- 
dren. And  the  quarrels  had  not  arisen  from  any  sub- 
stantial, material  causes,  but  simply  upon  questions  of 
a  purely  theoretical,  abstract  character.  "  They  could 
not  agree  about  their  convictions  ! "  It  was  only  that, 
but  this  "  only "  sufficed  to  make  children  abandon 
their  parents  and  parents  disown  their  children. 

An  epidemic  seemed  to  seize  upon  the  children, — 
especially  the  girls, —  an  epidemic  of  fleeing  from 
the  parental  roof.  In  our  immediate  neighborhood, 
through  God's  mercy,  all  was  well  so  far ;  but  rumors 
reached  us  from  other  places :  the  daughter,  now  of 
this,  now  of  that  landed  proprietor  had  run  away;  this 
one  abroad,  the  other  to  Petersburg  to  the  "  nihilists." 

The  principal  bugaboo  of  all  parents  and  instructors 
in  the  Palibino  district  was  a  certain  mythical  com- 
munity, which,  rumor  asserted,  had  been  established 
somewhere  in  Petersburg.  In  it,  at  least  so  it  was 
believed,  they  enlisted  all  young  girls  who  wished  to 
leave  their  home.  There  the  young  people  of  both 
sexes  lived  in  full  communism.  There  were  no  ser- 
vants, and  nobly  born  young  ladies  of  the  aristocracy 
washed  the  floors  and  cleaned  the  samovars  with  their 
own  hands.  As  a  matter  of  course,  none  of  the  peo- 
ple who  spread  these  reports  had  ever  been  in  this  com- 
munity themselves.  Where  it  was  situated,  and  how 
it  could  possibly  exist  in  St.  Petersburg,  under  the 
very  nose  of  the  police,  no  one  knew  exactly,  yet  no 
one  had  the  slightest  doubt  that  such  a  community 
did  exist. 

Signs  of  the  times  soon  began  to  manifest  them- 
selves in  our  immediate  vicinity. 


94  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

The  parish  priest,  Father  Philip,  had  a  son  who  had 
always  hitherto  rejoiced  the  hearts  of  his  parents  by 
his  good  temper  and  obedience.  Suddenly,  just  as  he 
had  finished  his  studies  in  the  ecclesiastical  seminary, 
almost  at  the  head  of  his  class,  this  model  youth, 
without  a  word  of  warning,  turned  into  a  disobedient 
son,  and  flatly  refused  to  become  a  priest,  although 
he  had  but  to  hold  out  his  hand  in  order  to  obtain  a 
desirable  parish.  His  Reverence,  the  Bishop,  sum- 
moned him  to  him,  and  entreated  him  not  to  quit  the 
bosom  of  the  church,  giving  a  very  plain  hint  that  all 
he  had  to  do  was  to  express  a  wish  for  it  and  he  would 
be  appointed  priest  in  the  village  of  Ivanovo  (one  of 
the  richest  in  the  government).  Of  course,  to  this 
end  he  would  be  obliged,  as  a  preliminary  requisite, 
to  marry  one  of  the  daughters  of  the  former  priest, 
because  it  has  been  the  custom  from  time  immemorial, 
that  the  parish  forms  the  dowry,  so  to  speak,  of  one 
of  the  daughters  of  the  deceased  priest.  But  even 
this  enticing  prospect  did  not  beguile  the  young  man. 
He  preferred  to  go  to  Petersburg,  enter  the  university 
at  his  own  expense,  and  condemn  himself  to  a  diet  of 
tea  and  dry  bread  during  the  four  years  of  his  studies. 

Poor  Father  Philip  grieved  over  his  son's  folly,  but 
he  might  yet  have  consoled  himself  had  the  latter  en- 
tered the  department  of  law  j  of  course,  because  that 
was  the  most  profitable.  But  his  son  entered  the  de- 
partment of  natural  sciences  instead,  and,  on  reach- 
ing home  for  his  first  vacation,  uttered  such  nonsense 
about  man  being  descended  from  the  ape,  and  about 
Professor  Syetchenoff  having  proved  that  there  is  no 
soul,  but  only  reflection,  that  the  poor,  embittered 
father  seized  his  sprinkler  and  sprinkled  his  son  with 
holy  water. 

In  former  years,  when  he  returned  to  his  father 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  95 

from  the  ecclesiastical  seminary,  the  priest's  young 
son  had  never  allowed  a  single  family  festival  at  our 
house  to  pass  without  presenting  himself  to  offer  his 
congratulations,  and  at  the  festival  dinner  he  sat  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  table,  as  befitted  a  young  man  of 
his  rank  in  life,  devouring  the  festival  cake,  but  not 
mingling  in  the  conversation. 

But  this  summer,  on  the  occasion  of  the  first  name- 
day  which  occurred  after  his  arrival,  the  young  man 
shone  by  his  absence.  On  the  other  hand,  he  pre- 
sented himself  once  on  a  day  when  we  were  not 
receiving,  and  when  the  servant  asked  him  "  what  he 
wanted,"  he  replied  that  he  had  come  simply  to  call 
upon  the  General. 

My  father  had  already  heard  not  a  little  about  the 
"  nihilist "  son  of  the  priest  5  he  had  not  failed  to  no- 
tice his  absence  at  his  name-day,  though,  of  course,  he 
pretended  to  pay  no  attention  to  such  an  insignificant 
circumstance.  But  now  he  flew  into  a  rage  at  the  idea 
of  the  young  upstart  taking  it  into  his  head  to  present 
himself  simply  as  a  guest,  as  an  equal,  and  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  give  him  a  good  lesson ;  therefore  he 
ordered  the  lackey  to  say  to  him,  "The  General 
receives  people  who  come  to  him  on  business,  and 
petitioners,  in  the  morning  only,  before  one  o'clock." 

Faithful  Ilya,  who  always  understood  his  master's 
faintest  hints,  executed  his  order  in  precisely  the 
spirit  in  which  it  had  been  given  to  him.  But  the 
young  popovitck1  was  not  in  the  least  confused,  and, 
as  he  took  his  departure,  he  remarked  in  a  very  free 
and  easy  way :  "  Tell  your  master  that  from  this  day 
forth  I  shall  never  set  foot  in  his  house  again." 

Ilya  fulfilled  this  commission  also,  and  it  is  not  dif- 
ficult to  imagine  what  an  uproar  the  prank  of  the 
1  The  son  of  a  priest. 


96  SONY  A  KOVALEVSKY 

priest's  son  created,  not  in  our  house  alone,  but  in  the 
whole  district. 

But  the  most  startling  thing  was  that  Aniuta,  when 
she  heard  what  had  happened,  ran  insubordinately 
into  father's  study,  and,  with  crimson  cheeks,  and 
panting  with  excitement,  exclaimed :  "  Why  have  you 
insulted  Alexei  Philippovitch,  papa?  It  is  horrible, 
it  is  unworthy  of  you,  thus  to  insult  a  well-bred  man ! " 

Papa  stared  at  her  with  astonished  eyes.  His  amaze- 
ment was  so  great  that  at  first  he  could  not  tell  what 
reply  to  make  to  his  audacious  little  girl.  Moreover, 
Aniuta's  sudden  fit  of  temerity  had  already  evapo- 
rated, and  she  made  haste  to  run  away  to  her  own 
room. 

When  he  had  recovered  from  his  astonishment,  and 
had  thought  the  whole  affair  over  thoroughly,  my 
father  decided  that  it  was  better  not  to  attribute  any 
great  importance  to  his  daughter's  sally,  but  to  treat 
the  whole  matter  as  a  joke.  At  dinner,  in  Aniuta's 
presence,  he  related  the  story  of  a  Tzar's  daughter 
who  had  taken  it  into  her  head  to  champion  a  groom. 
Naturally,  the  Tzarevna  and  her  protege  were  repre- 
sented in  the  most  ridiculous  light.  My  father  was 
a  master  hand  in  the  use  of  witticism,  and  we  were 
terribly  afraid  of  his  ridicule.  But  to-day  Aniuta  lis- 
tened to  papa's  story  without  being  in  the  least  trou- 
bled, but  on  the  contrary,  with  an  irritable  and  chal- 
lenging aspect. 

Aniuta  expressed  her  protest  against  the  insult  to 
which  the  priest's  son  had  been  subjected,  by  seeking 
every  occasion  to  meet  him  at  our  neighbors'  or  in  her 
walks. 

Stepan,  the  coachman,  narrated  one  day  at  supper, 
in  the  servants'  hall,  how  their  dreadful  young  mis- 
tress had  been  walking  alone  in  the  forest  with  the 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD       97 

popovitch.  "And  it  was  fun  to  watch  them!  The 
young  mistress  walked  along  in  silence,  with  downcast 
eyes,  playing  with  the  parasol  which  she  held  in  her 
hands.  But  he  strode  along  beside  her,  with  his  long 
legs,  exactly  like  a  long-legged  stork;  and  he  kept 
jabbering  something  all  the  time  and  waving  his  hands 
about.  And  all  at  once  he  pulls  a  towsled  little  book 
from  his  pocket  and  begins  to  read  aloud,  just  as  if 
he  were  reading  her  a  lesson." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
young  priest's  son  bore  very  little  resemblance  to  the 
f  any  prince  or  the  knight  of  the  middle  ages  of  whom 
Aniuta  had  been  dreaming.  His  lank,  awkward  fig- 
ure; his  long,  sinewy  neck  and  pale  face,  framed  in 
thin,  reddish-sandy  hair;  his  large,  red  hands,  with 
flat  and  not  always  immaculately  clean  nails;  and, 
worst  of  all,  his  unpleasant,  vulgar  pronunciation, 
smacking  too  much  of  the  o,1  which  was  an  indubi- 
table proof  of  his  priestly  extraction  and  his  educa- 
tion in  the  free  ecclesiastical  seminary  —  all  this  did 
not  make  him  a  very  fascinating  hero  in  the  eyes  of  a 
young  girl  with  aristocratic  habits  and  tastes.  It  was 
difficult  to  imagine  that  Aniuta's  interest  in  the  priest's 
son  rested  on  a  romantic  basis.  Evidently  there  was 
something  else  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

And,  in  fact,  the  young  man's  chief  attraction  in 
Aniuta's  eyes  consisted  in  his  having  just  come  from 

1  The  church  service  is  conducted  not  in  modern  Russian  but 
in  the  ancient  Slavonic  language.  The  pronunciation  of  the 
Slavonic  differs  in  divers  respects  from  that  of  modern  Rus- 
sian, and  the  specially  noticeable  point  is  the  full,  round  utter- 
ance of  the  letter  o  on  all  occasions.  In  the  ordinary,  cultivated 
language,  the  o  gets  its  full  sound  only  when  it  occurs  in  the 
accented  syllable  of  a  word,  otherwise  it  sounds  like  a.  From 
force  of  habit  priests  usually  pronounce  the  o  too  distinctly  in 
their  ordinary  language. — Trans. 
7 


98  S6NYA  KOVALtfVSKY 

Petersburg  and  brought  thence  the  very  newest  ideas. 
More  than  that,  he  had  had  the  happiness  to  see  with 
his  own  eyes,  only  from  a  distance,  it  is  true,  many 
of  those  great  people  whom  all  the  young  people  of 
the  period  adored.  This  was  quite  sufficient  to  render 
him  extremely  interesting  and  attractive.  But,  in  ad- 
dition to  this,  Aniuta  could,  thanks  to  him,  get  pos- 
session of  various  books  otherwise  inaccessible  to  her. 
Only  the  most  stately  and  solid  periodicals  were  ta- 
ken in  our  house  —  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes" 
and  the  "Athenasum"  among  foreign  journals,  the 
"Russian  Messenger"  among  Russian  journals.  By 
way  of  a  great  concession  to  the  spirit  of  the  times, 
father  had  consented  that  year  to  subscribe  to  the 
"  Epoch,"  of  Dostoevsky.  But  Aniuta  began  to  get 
journals  of  another  stamp  from  the  priest's  son  — 
"The  Contemporary,"  "The  Russian  Word,"  each 
number  of  which  was  considered  the  event  of  the 
day  by  the  young  people  of  the  period.  One  day  he 
even  brought  her  a  copy  of  Hertzen's  prohibited 
"Kolokol"  (The  Bell). 

I  cannot  say  that  Aniuta  accepted  all  the  new  ideas 
which  her  friend  preached  to  her  at  once  and  without 
criticism.  Many  of  them  disturbed  her,  seemed  to  her 
exaggerated ;  she  revolted  against  them  and  argued. 
But  in  every  instance,  under  the  influence  of  her  con- 
versations with  the  priest's  son,  and  of  the  perusal  of 
the  books  which  he  provided  for  her,  she  developed 
very  quickly,  and  changed,  not  day  by  day,  but  hour 
by  hour. 

By  the  autumn  the  priest's  son  had  succeeded  in 
quarreling  so  thoroughly  with  his  father  that  the  lat- 
ter requested  him  to  depart,  and  not  to  return  on  the 
next  holidays.  But  the  seeds  which  he  had  sown  in 
Aniuta's  brain  continued  to  grow  and  develop. 

Even  her  outward  appearance  was  changed.     She 


BECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  99 

began  to  dress  simply  in  black  gowns,  with  plain  col- 
lars, and  to  conib  her  hair  straight  back  into  a  net. 
She  now  spoke  of  balls  and  entertainments  with  scorn. 
In  the  mornings  she  collected  the  children  of  the 
house  servants  and  taught  them  to  read,  and  when 
she  met  the  village  women  during  her  rambles,  she 
stopped  them,  and  held  long  conversations  with  them. 

But  the  most  noticeable  thing  was  that  Aniuta, 
who  had  hitherto  hated  study,  now  evinced  a  passion 
for  it.  Instead  of,  as  hitherto,  wasting  all  her  pocket- 
money  on  toilettes  and  fripperies,  she  now  ordered 
whole  boxes  of  books  from  town ;  and  not  romances, 
either,  but  books  with  such  wise  titles  as  "  The  Phy- 
siology of  Life,"  "  The  History  of  Civilization,"  and 
so  forth. 

One  day  Aniuta  came  to  my  father,  and  made 
a  sudden  and  utterly  unexpected  demand  —  that  he 
should  allow  her  to  go  to  Petersburg  to  study.  At 
first  father  tried  to  turn  her  request  into  a  jest,  as 
he  had  done  before,  when  Aniuta  had  announced  that 
she  would  not  live  in  the  country.  But  this  time 
Aniuta  did  not  desist.  Neither  father's  jests  nor  his 
witticisms  had  any  effect  on  her.  She  hotly  demon- 
strated that  it  did  not  follow,  because  father  was 
obliged  to  live  on  the  estate,  that  she  must  shut  her- 
self up  in  the  country  also,  where  she  had  neither  oc- 
cupations nor  pleasures. 

Father  got  angry  at  last,  and  shouted  at  her  as  if 
she  had  been  a  small  child.  "If  you  don't  under- 
stand that  it  is  the  duty  of  every  respectable  girl  to 
live  with  her  parents  until  she  marries,  I  won't  argue 
with  a  stupid,  bad  little  girl ! "  he  said. 

Aniuta  comprehended  that  it  was  useless  to  insist. 
But  from  that  day  forth  the  relations  between  her 
and  father  were  very  strained ;  each  exhibited  irrita- 
tion against  each  other,  and  this  irritation  increased 


100  S6NYA  KOVALtfVSKY 

with  every  passing  day.  At  dinner,  the  only  time  in 
the  day  when  they  met,  they  almost  never  addressed 
each  other  directly  now,  but  a  sting  or  a  vicious  hint 
was  to  be  felt  in  every  word  which  they  uttered. 

Altogether,  unprecedented  discord  now  began  to 
reign  in  our  family.  There  had  been  very  few  gen- 
eral interests  hitherto;  previous  to  this  each  mem- 
ber of  the  family  had  lived  to  suit  himself,  simply 
paying  no  attention  to  the  others.  But  now  two  hos- 
tile camps  seemed  to  have  formed. 

The  governess  had  announced  herself  as  the  vigor- 
ous opponent  of  all  new  ideas,  from  the  very  begin- 
ning. She  christened  Aniuta  the  "  nihilist,"  and 
the  "progressive  young  lady."  This  last  nickname 
had  a  particularly  stinging  sound  on  her  lips.  Feel- 
ing, by  instinct,  that  Aniuta  was  plotting  something, 
she  began  to  suspect  her  of  the  most  criminal  designs 
—  of  running  away  from  home  on  the  sly,  of  marry- 
ing the  priest's  son,  of  entering  the  notorious  com- 
munity. So  she  became  watchful,  and  distrustfully 
spied  upon  every  step  she  took.  But  Aniuta,  feeling 
that  the  governess  was  spying  upon  her,  began  delib- 
erately, and  for  the  purpose  of  irritating  her,  to  sur- 
round herself  with  offensive  mystery. 

The  warlike  mood  which  now  reigned  in  our  house 
soon  infected  me.  The  governess,  who  had  previously 
disapproved  of  my  intimacy  with  Aniuta,  now  began 
to  protect  her  pupil  against  the  "  progressive  young 
lady,"  as  if  from  the  pest.  As  far  as  she  was  able 
she  prevented  my  remaining  alone  with  my  sister,  and 
every  attempt  to  make  my  escape  from  the  school- 
room, and  run  up-stairs  to  the  world  of  the  grown 
people,  she  began  to  regard  as  a  crime. 

I  grew  frightfully  weary  of  the  governess's  watch- 
ful oversight.  I  also  felt  instinctively  that  Aniuta 
had  acquired  some  new  and  hitherto  unprecedented 


EECOLLECTIOXS  OF  CHILDHOOD  101 

interests,  and  I  had  a  passionate  desire  to  understand 
precisely  what  it  was  all  about.  Almost  every  time  that 
I  happened  to  run  unexpectedly  into  Aniuta's  room, 
I  found  her  at  her  writing-table  engaged  in  writing. 
Several  times  I  tried  to  make  her  tell  me  what  she  was 
writing,  but  as  Aniuta  had  already  received  several 
scoldings  from  the  governess  for  not  only  having  de- 
serted the  right  path  herself,  but  for  trying  to  corrupt 
her  sister  also,  she  was  afraid  of  more  reproaches,  and 
always  drove  me  away.  "Ah,  go  away;  do,  please. 
Margarita  Frantzovua  will  catch  you  here  again. 
Then  we  shall  both  catch  it,"  she  said  impatiently. 

I  returned  to  the  school-room  with  a  feeling  of  vex- 
ation and  irritation  against  my  governess,  on  whose 
account  my  sister  would  tell  me  nothing.  The  poor 
Englishwoman  found  it  harder  and  harder  to  get  on 
with  her  pupil.  From  the  conversations  which  went 
on  at  dinner  I  gathered  chiefly  that  it  was  no  longer 
the  fashion  to  heed  one's  elders.  As  a  result  the 
sentiment  of  subordination  was  considerably  weak- 
ened in  me.  My  quarrel  with  the  governess  now 
took  place  almost  every  day,  and  after  one  particu- 
larly stormy  scene  the  latter  announced  that  she 
would  no  longer  stay  with  us. 

As  this  threat  had  often  been  repeated  before  this 
I  paid  no  great  attention  to  it  at  first.  This  time, 
however,  it  turned  out  that  she  was  in  earnest.  On 
the  one  hand  the  governess  had  gone  too  far,  and 
could  not  honorably  renounce  her  threat;  on  the 
other  hand  these  continual  scenes  and  rows  had  so 
wearied  every  one  that  my  parents  did  not  try  to 
retain  her,  in  the  hope  that  the  house  would  be  more 
peaceful  without  her. 

But,  to  the  very  end,  I  did  not  believe  that  the  gov- 
erness would  go  away  until  the  very  day  of  her  de- 
parture dawned  at  last. 

7* 


IX 


DEPARTURE  OF   THE    GOVERNESS.      ANIUTA'S 
FIRST  LITERARY  EFFORTS 

A  LARGE,  old-fashioned  trunk,  neatly  covered  with 
-£*-  a  canvas  case,  and  bound  round  with  ropes, 
had  been  standing  in  the  antechamber  since  morning. 
Over  it  rose  a  whole  battery  of  little  pasteboard  boxes, 
little  baskets,  little  bags,  and  little  packets,  without 
which  no  old  spinster  can  set  out  on  a  journey.  An 
old  tarantas,  drawn  by  three  horses  in  the  plainest, 
hardest  used  harness,  which  coachman  Yakoff  always 
brings  into  play  when  a  long  journey  is  in  prospect, 
is  already  waiting  at  the  door.  The  maids  bustle  to 
and  fro,  bringing  out  and  arranging  divers  small 
articles  and  trifles,  but  papa's  valet,  Ilya,  stands 
motionless,  lazily  leaning  against  the  door-post,  and 
expressing  by  his  whole  careless  attitude  that  the 
impending  departure  is  of  no  great  importance,  and 
that  it  is  not  worth  while  creating  an  uproar  about  it 
in  the  house.  All  our  family  is  assembled  in  the 
dining-room.  In  accordance  with  the  customary  cere- 
mony, papa  invites  all  to  seat  themselves  before  the 
journey  is  begun;  the  gentle-folk  occupy  the  first 
row,  and  the  whole  of  the  house-servants  are  collected 
in  a  dense  group  a  short  distance  away,  sitting 
respectfully  on  the  edges  of  their  chairs.  Several 
minutes  pass  in  reverent  silence,  during  which  time 
the  sensation  of  nervous  anguish  inevitably  evoked 
by  every  departure  and  parting  involuntarily  takes 

102 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  103 

possession  of  the  soul.  But  now  father  gives  the 
signal  to  rise,  crosses  himself  before  the  holy  picture, 
the  others  follow  his  example,  and  then  begin  the 
tears  and  the  embraces. 

I  glance  now  at  my  governess  in  her  dark  traveling 
gown,  enveloped  in  a  warm  shawl  of  goat's  down,  and 
she  suddenly  appears  to  me  in  quite  a  different  light 
from  that  in  which  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  regard- 
ing her.  She  seems  suddenly  to  have  grown  old;  her 
full,  energetic  figure  seems  to  have  fallen  in;  her 
eyes  ("lightning  flashes"  as  we  called  them  in  pri- 
vate to  ridicule  her),  from  which  none  of  my  misdeeds 
escaped,  are  now  red,  swollen,  and  filled  with  tears. 
The  corners  of  her  mouth  quiver  nervously.  For  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  think  that  she  is  to  be  pitied. 
She  embraces  me  long  and  convulsively,  with  such 
vehement  affection  as  I  never  expected  from  her. 

"  Don't  forget  me:  write.  It  is  no  jest  to  part  from 
a  child  whom  I  have  reared  since  her  fifth  year,"  she 
says  sobbing.  I  also  fall  upon  her  neck,  and  begin  to 
sob  despairingly.  A  cruel  sadness  overwhelms  me; 
the  sense  of  irreparable  loss,  as  if  our  whole  family 
would  fall  to  pieces  with  her  departure.  With  this  is 
mingled  the  consciousness  of  my  own  guilt.  I  am 
ashamed  to  the  verge  of  pain  when  I  remember  that 
duiing  all  these  last  days,  even  as  late  as  this  very 
morning,  a  secret  joy  has  seized  upon  me  at  the 
thought  of  her  departure  and  my  impending  freedom. 

Now  I  have  got  what  I  deserve.  She  is  really 
going  away,  and  we  shall  be  deprived  of  her.  At 
this  moment  I  feel  so  sorry  for  her  that  God  knows 
what  I  would  not  give  to  keep  her.  I  cling  to  her;  I 
seem  unable  to  detach  myself  from  her. 

"  It  is  time  to  start,  that  you  may  reach  town  by 
daylight,"  says  some  one.  The  luggage  has  already 


104  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

been  placed  in  the  carriage.  The  governess  is  put  in 
also.  One  more  long,  tender  embrace. 

"Take  care,  miss,  or  you  '11  get  under  the  horses' 
feet ! "  some  one  cries,  and  the  carriage  moves  off. 

I  run  up-stairs  to  the  corner  room,  from  whose 
windows  is  visible  the  whole  of  the  birch  avenue,  a 
verst  in  length,  which  leads  from  the  house  to  the 
highway,  and  press  my  face  to  the  pane.  I  cannot 
tear  myself  away  from  the  window  as  long  as  the  equi- 
page is  visible,  and  my  feeling  of  personal  guilt  grows 
stronger  and  stronger.  Heavens!  How  I  regret  at 
that  moment  the  departing  governess !  All  my  skir- 
mishes with  her — and  they  have  been  especially  nu- 
merous of  late — now  appear  to  me  in  quite  another 
light  than  they  have  appeared  previously. 

"And  she  loved  me.  She  would  have  remained  had 
she  known  how  I  love  her.  But  now  no  one,  no  one 
loves  me,"  I  say  to  myself,  with  tardy  repentance, 
and  my  sobs  grow  louder  and  louder. 

"Is  it  over  Margarita  that  you  are  mourning  so?" 
asks  my  brother  Fedya  as  he  runs  past  me.  Surprise 
and  mockery  are  audible  in  his  voice. 

"Let  her  alone,  Fedya.  It  does  her  credit  that  she 
is  so  affectionate" — I  hear  behind  me  the  hortatory 
voice  of  my  old  aunt,  whom  none  of  us  children  loves, 
because  we  consider  her  deceitful.  My  brother's 
mockery,  and  my  aunt's  sweetish  praise,  act  upon  me 
in  an  equally  disagreeable,  sobering  manner.  I 
never  could  bear  from  my  childhood  up  to  have  peo- 
ple for  whom  I  do  not  care  comfort  me  in  my  heart- 
troubles.  Consequently  I  angrily  thrust  aside  the 
hand  which  my  aunt  lays  on  my  shoulder  by  way 
of  a  caress,  and  muttering  wrathfully,  "I  'm  not 
mourning  at  all,  and  I  'm  not  in  the  least  affection- 
ate," I  rush  off  to  my  own  room. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  105 

The  sight  of  the  deserted  school-room  comes  near 
evoking  another  paroxysm  of  despair ;  only  the  thought 
that  now  there  is  no  one  who  can  hinder  my  being  with 
my  sister  as  much  as  I  like  comforted  me  a  little.  I 
decide  to  run  to  her  at  once,  and  see  what  she  is 
doing. 

Aniuta  is  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  large  hall.  She 
always  indulges  in  this  exercise  when  she  is  engrossed 
or  troubled  by  anything  in  particular.  Her  aspect  at 
such  times  is  very  absent-minded,  beaming;  her  green 
eyes  become  quite  transparent,  and  see  nothing  that 
is  going  on  around  her.  She  keeps  time  as  she  walks 
with  her  thoughts,  without  being  aware  of  it;  if  her 
thoughts  are  sad,  her  gait  becomes  weary,  slow; 
when  her  thoughts  grow  more  lively,  and  she  begins 
to  devise  something,  her  pace  quickens  so  that  at  last 
she  no  longer  walks  but  runs  about  the  room.  Every 
one  in  the  house  is  acquainted  with  this  habit  of  hers, 
and  laughs  at  her  on  account  of  it.  I  have  often 
watched  her  on  the  sly  as  she  walks,  and  wished  to 
know  what  Aniuta  was  thinking  about. 

Although  I  know  by  experience  that  it  is  useless  to 
approach  her  at  such  times,  on  this  occasion  I  lose 
patience  at  last,  and  make  an  attempt  to  speak  to  her 
when  I  perceive  that  her  promenade  does  not  cease. 
"Aniuta,  I  am  awfully  bored.  Give  me  one  of  your 
books  to  read,"  I  say  in  a  voice  of  entreaty.  But  An- 
iuta continues  her  walk,  as  if  she  does  not  hear  me. 

Several  minutes  more  of  silence  elapse. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  Aniuta?"  I  make 
up  my  mind  at  last  to  inquire. 

"Ah,  leave  me  alone,  please.  You  're  still  too  young 
for  me  to  tell  you  everything,"  is  the  scornful  answer 
which  I  receive. 

But  I  am  thoroughly  offended  at  last.     "  So  that 's 


106  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

what  you  are  like,  and  you  won't  talk  to  me.  I 
thought  that  now  Margarita  had  gone  away  that  we 
were  going  to  be  very  friendly,  but  you  drive  me  off. 
Well,  I  '11  go,  and  I  '11  never,  never  love  you." 

I  am  almost  in  tears,  and  am  on  the  point  of 
departing,  but  my  sister  calls  me.  In  reality  she 
is  burning  with  the  desire  to  tell  some  one  about 
what  interests  her,  and  as  she  cannot  talk  to  any 
member  of  the  household  about  it,  she  contents 
herself  with  her  twelve-year-old  sister  for  lack  of  a 
better  confidant. 

"  Listen,"  she  says.  "  If  you  will  promise  that  you 
will  never  tell  any  one,  under  any  circumstances 
whatever,  I  will  confide  to  you  a  great  secret." 

My  tears  vanish  instantaneously;  my  wrath  is  as  if 
it  had  never  existed.  Of  course  I  swear  that  I  will 
be  as  dumb  as  a  fish,  and  I  impatiently  await  her 
confidence. 

"  Come  to  my  room,"  she  says  solemnly.  "I  will 
show  you  something  which  you  certainly  do  not 
expect." 

She  takes  me  to  her  room,  and  leads  me  to  an  old 
bureau  in  which,  as  I  am  aware,  she  keeps  her  most 
precious  secrets.  "Without  haste,  deliberately,  in  or- 
der to  prolong  my  curiosity,  she  opens  one  of  the 
drawers  and  takes  from  it  a  large  envelop  of  busi- 
ness-like aspect,  with  a  red  seal  on  which  is  engraved, 
"  The  Epoch  Magazine."  The  envelop  bears  the  ad- 
dress, D6mna  Nikitishna  Kiizmin  (this  is  the  name 
of  one  of  our  housekeepers,  who  is  heartily  de- 
voted to  my  sister,  and  would  go  through  fire  and 
water  for  her).  From  this  envelop  my  sister  draws 
another  smaller  envelop  with  the  inscription,  "For 
Anna  Vasilievna  Korvin-Krukovsky,"  and  at  last 
she  hands  me  a  letter  in  a  large,  masculine  handwrit- 


KECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  107 

ing.  I  have  not  this  letter  by  me  at  the  present 
moment;  but  I  read  and  re-read  it  so  often  in  my 
childhood  that  it  engraved  itself  on  my  memory  so  to 
speak,  and  I  think  I  can  give  it  almost  word  for 
word : 

DEAR  MADAM  ANNA  VASILIEVNA:  Your  letter,  so  filled  with 
sincere  and  charming  confidence  in  me,  interested  me  to  such 
a  degree  that  I  proceeded  immediately  to  read  the  story  you 
sent  me. 

I  must  confess  that  I  began  to  read  it  not  without  secret 
trepidation.  The  sad  duty  so  often  falls  to  the  lot  of  us  editors 
of  magazines,  of  destroying  the  illusions  of  young  writers,  just 
beginning,  who  send  us  their  literary  efforts  for  examination. 
In  your  case  this  would  have  been  very  painful  to  me.  But  as 
I  read  my  trepidation  vanished,  and  I  yielded  more  and  more  to 
the  spell  of  the  youthful  directness,  the  sincerity,  and  warmth 
of  feeling  with  which  your  story  is  permeated.  These  quali- 
ties so  predispose  me  in  your  favor  that  I  fear  I  am  still  under 
their  influence;  therefore  I  dare  not  reply  categorically  and 
impartially  as  yet  to  the  question  which  you  ask  me,  "Will  you 
develop  into  a  great  writer  in  the  course  of  time  ?  " 

One  thing  I  will  say  to  you :  I  shall  print  your  story  (and  with 
the  greatest  pleasure)  in  the  next  number  of  my  journal.  As 
for  your  question,  I  will  advise  you :  write  and  work ;  time  will 
show  the  rest. 

I  will  not  conceal  from  you  that  there  is  still  much  that  is 
unfinished  in  your  story,  much  that  is  too  ingenuous ;  there  are 
also,  pardon  my  frankness,  crimes  against  Russian  grammar. 
But  all  these  are  petty  defects  which  you  will  be  able  to  con- 
quer by  diligent  labor.  The  general  impression  is  favorable. 

Therefore,  I  repeat,  write  and  write.  I  shall  be  sincerely 
glad  if  you  find  it  possible  to  communicate  to  me  more  about 
yourself:  how  old  you  are,  and  what  are  the  surroundings 
among  which  you  live.  It  is  important  that  I  should  know  this, 
for  a  proper  valuation  of  your  talent. 

Respectfully  yours, 

FEODOR  DOSTOEVSKY. 

I  read  this  letter  and  the  lines  swam  before  my 
eyes.  Dostoevsky's  name  was  familiar  to  me ;  he  had 


108  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

often  been  mentioned  of  late  at  dinner  during  my 
sister's  disputes  with  father.  I  knew  that  he  was  one 
of  the  most  prominent  Russian  authors;  but  how 
came  he  to  be  writing  to  Aniuta,  and  what  did  it 
mean?  For  one  moment  it  flashed  across  my  mind 
that  my  sister  might  be  fooling  me  in  order  after- 
ward to  laugh  at  my  credulity. 

When  I  had  finished  the  letter  I  looked  at  my  sis- 
ter in  silence,  not  knowing  what  to  say.  My  sister 
was  evidently  enraptured  by  my  amazement. 

"Do  you  understand,  do  you  understand?"  said 
Aniuta  at  last,  in  a  voice  broken  with  joyful  emotion. 
"  I  wrote  a  story,  and,  without  saying  a  word  to  any 
one,  I  sent  it  to  Dostoevsky.  And,  as  you  see,  he 
considers  it  good,  and  will  print  it  in  his  journal. 
And  so  my  secret  dream  is  fulfilled.  Now  I  am  a 
Russian  authoress,"  she  almost  shouted,  in  a  burst  of 
irrepressible  ecstasy. 

In  order  to  understand  what  that  word  "  authoress" 
signified  to  us,  it  must  be  remembered  that  we  lived 
in  the  depths  of  the  country,  far  from  any  trace,  even 
the  slightest,  of  literary  life.  Our  family  read  a  great 
deal,  and  bought  a  great  many  new  books.  "We  and 
all  those  about  us  regarded  every  book,  every  printed 
word,  as  something  that  came  to  us  from  afar;  from 
some  unknown,  strange  world  which  had  nothing  in 
common  with  us.  Strange  as  it  may  appear,  it  is 
nevertheless  a  fact  that,  up  to  this  time,  neither  my 
sister  or  I  had  ever  seen  a  single  man  who  had  writ- 
ten so  much  as  a  single  line.  There  was,  it  is  true,  in 
our  county  town  a  teacher  of  whom  it  began  suddenly 
to  be  rumored  that  he  wrote  letters  to  the  newspapers 
about  our  county,  and  I  remember  with  what  respect- 
ful awe  every  one  began  to  treat  him  until  it  was  dis- 
covered at  last  that  the  letters  had  not  been  written 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  109 

by  him,  but  by  a  journalist  who  had  come  from 
Petersburg. 

And  now  all  of  a  sudden  my  sister  was  a  writer. 
I  found  no  words  with  which  to  express  my  rapture 
and  astonishment;  I  only  flung  myself  on  her  neck, 
and  we  hugged  each  other  for  a  long  time,  and 
laughed  and  talked  all  sorts  of  nonsense  in  our  joy. 

My  sister  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  tell  any 
other  member  of  the  household  about  her  triumph; 
she  knew  that  all,  even  mother,  would  be  alarmed, 
and  would  tell  father.  In  father's  eyes  her  action  in 
writing  to  DostoeVsky  without  permission,  and  subject- 
ing herself  to  his  condemnation  and  laughter,  would 
have  appeared  a  dreadful  crime, 

My  poor  father!  He  did  so  hate  women  writers, 
and  suspected  every  one  of  them  of  behavior  which 
had  nothing  to  do  with  literature.  And  he  was  fated 
to  be  the  father  of  an  authoress. 

My  father  was  personally  acquainted  with  but  one 
authoress,  the  Countess  Rost6ptchiu.  He  had  seen 
her  in  Moscow  at  the  period  when  she  was  a  brilliant 
society  beauty,  with  whom  all  the  fashionable  young 
men  of  the  day — my  father  among  the  number — had 
been  hopelessly  in  love.  Then,  many  years  afterward, 
he  had  met  her  somewhere  abroad,  in  Baden-Baden  I 
think,  in  the  gambling  hall. 

"  I  looked,  and  I  could  not  believe  my  eyes,"  my 
father  often  related  the  story.  "  The  countess  entered, 
followed  by  a  whole  string  of  sharpers,  each  more 
vulgar  than  the  other.  They  were  all  shouting,  and 
laughing,  and  gabbling,  and  treating  her  like  a  boon 
companion.  She  went  up  to  the  gaming-table,  and 
began  to  fling  one  gold  piece  after  another.  Her  eyes 
shone,  her  face  was  red,  her  chignon  was  askew. 
She  lost  everything,  to  her  very  last  gold  piece,  and 


110  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

screamed  to  her  adjutants  in  French,  'Well,  gentle- 
men, I  'm  broke !  The  game 's  tip ! '  Then  in  Russian, 
'Let  's  go  and  drown  our  grief  in  champagne!' 
That 's  what  writing  brings  a  woman  to." 

Naturally  after  this  my  sister  was  in  no  haste  to 
boast  of  her  success.  But  this  mystery  in  which  she 
was  obliged  to  shroud  her  first  appearance  in  the 
literary  career  lent  an  added  charm  to  it.  I  remem- 
ber her  raptures  when  a  few  weeks  later  the  number 
of  "  The  Epoch  "  reached  her,  and  we  read  in  the  ta- 
ble of  contents,  "The  Dream,"  a  novel  by  Yu.  O ff. 

(Yury  Obryeloff  was  the  pseudonym  which  Aniuta 
had  selected,  because  of  course  she  could  not  publish 
over  her  own  name.) 

Naturally  Aniuta  had  already  read  me  her  story 
from  the  rough  copy  which  she  had  preserved.  But 
now  in  the  pages  of  the  journal  the  story  seemed  to 
me  entirely  new  and  wonderfully  beautiful. 

The  contents  of  the  story  were  as  follows :  The  he- 
roine, Lilenka,  lives  among  old  people  who  have  been 
hardly  used  by  life,  and  who  have  hidden  themselves 
in  a  quiet  nook  in  order  to  seek  rest  and  forgetfulness. 
They  endeavor  to  instil  into  Lilenka  the  same  fear  of 
life  and  its  turmoils.  But  that  unknown  life,  of  which 
she  hears  only  confused  rumors,  like  the  distant  dash- 
ing of  waves  of  the  sea  concealed  behind  mountains, 
beckons  her  on  and  draws  her  to  it.  She  believes 
that  there  is  a  place 

"Where  people  live  more  cheerfully, 
Alive  with  life  ;  and  spin  no  spiders'  webs." 

But  how  is  she  to  reach  such  people  ?  Impercepti- 
bly to  herself  Lilenka  has  become  imbued  with  the 
prejudices  of  the  circle  in  which  she  lives.  Almost 
at  every  step  the  question  unconsciously  presents  it- 
self :  Is  it  proper  for  a  young  lady  to  act  thus  or  not  ? 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  111 

She  would  like  to  tear  herself  away  from  that  nar- 
row world  in  which  she  lives,  but  everything  which 
is  "  pas  comme  il  f aut "  and  vulgar  alarms  her. 

One  day,  during  a  festival  in  the  city,  she  makes 
the  acquaintance  of  a  young  student  (of  course,  the 
hero  of  a  novel  of  that  day  was  bound  to  be  a  stu- 
dent). This  young  man  makes  a  deep  impression  on 
her,  but  she  behaves  in  a  manner  becoming  to  a  pro- 
per, well-bred  young  lady,  and  shows  no  sign  that  he 
pleases  her;  and  their  acquaintance  is  confined  to  this 
one  meeting. 

After  this  Lilenka  is  bored,  at  first,  but  after  a 
while  she  calms  down.  Only  when  some  trifle  that 
recalls  this  never-to-be-forgotten  evening  falls  acci- 
dentally under  her  hand,  among  the  various  memen- 
tos of  her  colorless  life  with  which  her  drawers  are 
filled, — as  is  the  case  with  most  young  ladies, — does 
she  make  haste  to  clap  to  the  drawer  j  and  then  she 
goes  about  all  day  gloomy  and  dissatisfied. 

But  one  day  she  has  a  dream  —  the  student  comes 
to  her  and  begins  to  upbraid  her  for  not  having  fol- 
lowed him.  There  passes  before  Lilenka,  in  her 
dream,  a  series  of  pictures,  from  an  honest,  indus- 
trious life  with  the  man  she  loves,  among  clever  com- 
panions, a  life  full  of  warm,  bright  happiness  in  the 
present,  and  of  immeasurable  store  of  hopes  for  the 
future.  "  Look  and  repent !  Such  was  your  life  and 
mine ! "  the  student  says  to  her,  and  vanishes. 

Lilenka  awakes,  and  under  the  influence  of  her 
dream  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  disregard  the  con- 
sideration of  what  is  proper  for  a  young  girl.  She, 
who  has  never  hitherto  left  the  house  unaccompanied 
by  either  a  maid  or  a  lackey,  now  goes  off  secretly, 
hires  the  first  public  cab  she  encounters,  and  drives 
to  the  distant,  wretched  street  where,  as  she  is  aware, 


112  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

her  dear  student  lives.  After  much  searching  and 
many  adventures,  resulting  from  her  inexperience  and 
awkwardness,  she  finds  his  lodging  at  last,  but  there 
she  learns  from  the  comrade  who  shares  it  with  him 
that  the  poor  fellow  had  died  a  few  days  before  of  ty- 
phus fever.  His  comrade  tells  her  what  a  hard  life  he 
led,  what  want  he  suffered,  and  how,  in  his  delirium, 
he  had  several  times  mentioned  a  young  lady.  For 
the  comfort  or  the  reproof  of  the  weeping  Lilenka  he 
repeats  to  her  these  verses  of  Dobroliiiboff : 

I  fear  that  even  death  hath  played 
A  scurvy  trick  upon  me. 

I  fear  that  all  I  've  craved  in  life, 

So  warmly,  eagerly, 
Will  cheerily  smile  upon  me,  dead, 

As  I  lie  in  my  coffin  wearily. 

Lilenka  returns  to  her  home,  and  none  of  the 
household  ever  knows  where  she  had  spent  that  day. 
But  she  always  retains  the  conviction  that  she  has 
deliberately  flung  away  her  happiness.  She  does  not 
live  long,  and  dies  sorrowing  over  her  wasted  youth, 
which  has  held  nothing  worth  mentioning. 

Aniuta's  first  success  gave  her  so  much  courage 
that  she  immediately  set  to  work  on  another  story, 
which  she  finished  in  a  few  weeks.  This  time  the 
hero  of  her  story  was  a  young  man,  Mikhail  by  name, 
reared  apart  from  his  family,  in  a  monastery,  by  his 
uncle,  a  monk.  This  story  DostoeVsky  approved  more 
highly  than  the  first,  and  regarded  it  as  more  mature. 
The  portrait  of  Mikhail  offers  some  resemblance  to 
that  of  Alyosha,  in  "  The  Karamazoff  Brothers." J 

When  I  read  this  romance  several  years  later,  as  it 
appeared,  I  was  forcibly  struck  by  this  resemblance, 
1  A  romance,  by  F.  Dosto^vsky. —  Trans. 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  113 

and  commented  on  it  to  Dostoevsky,  whom  I  then 
saw  very  often. 

"  Why,  that  is  certainly  true ! "  said  Fe6dor  Mik- 
hailovitch,  striking  his  brow;  "but  you  must  take 
my  word  for  it,  I  had  quite  forgotten  about  Mikhail 
when  I  invented  my  Aly6sha.  However,  perhaps 
he  unconsciously  recurred  to  my  mind,"  he  added, 
thoughtfully. 

But  matters  did  not  proceed  so  smoothly  when  this 
second  romance  was  printed,  as  they  had  in  the  case 
of  the  first.  A  sad  catastrophe  occurred  —  Dostoev- 
sky's  letter  fell  into  our  father's  hands  and  a  dreadful 
row  ensued. 

This  took  place  on  the  fifth  of  September,  a  memo- 
rable day  in  the  annals  of  our  family.  A  multitude 
of  guests  had  assembled  at  our  house  as  usual.  That 
day  we  expected  the  post,  which  came  to  our  estate 
only  once  a  week.  Generally  the  housekeeper,  under 
cover  of  whose  name  Aniuta  corresponded  with  Fe6- 
dor  Mikhailovitch,  went  out  to  meet  the  postman,  and 
took  from  him  her  letters  before  she  carried  the  mail 
to  her  master.  But  on  this  occasion  she  was  busy 
with  the  guests.  Unfortunately,  the  postboy  who  usu- 
ually  brought  the  mail  had  been  taking  a  little  too 
much  liquor  in  honor  of  the  mistress's  name-day — that 
is  to  say,  he  was  dead  drunk,  and  in  his  place  they 
sent  a  boy  who  knew  nothing  of  the  arrangements 
which  they  had  made.  Thus  the  post-bag  arrived  in 
papa's  study  without  having  been  subjected  to  pre- 
liminary examination  and  weeding. 

The  registered  letter  addressed  to  our  housekeeper, 
with  the  stamp  of  "  The  Epoch "  magazine,  immedi- 
ately caught  father's  eye.  What  was  the  meaning  of 
this  ?  He  ordered  the  housekeeper  to  be  sent  to  him, 
and  made  her  open  the  letter  in  his  presence.  It  is 


114  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

easy,  or  rather,  it  is  not  easy,  to  imagine  the  scene 
that  followed.  The  second  misfortune  was,  that  in 
this  letter  Dostoevsky  had  sent  to  my  sister  the  pay- 
ment for  her  stories,  something  over  three  hundred 
rubles,  as  I  recall  it.  This  circumstance,  viz.,  that 
my  sister  was  receiving  money  from  a  strange  man, 
unknown  to  any  one,  seemed  to  father  so  disgraceful 
and  insulting  that  it  made  him  ill.  He  had  heart  dis- 
ease and  gall  stones.  The  doctor  had  said  that  any 
emotion  was  injurious  to  him  and  might  bring  about 
sudden  death,  and  the  possibility  of  such  a  catas- 
trophe was  a  terror  for  the  family  in  general.  He 
turned  black  in  the  face  every  time  we  children  did 
anything  to  displease  him,  and  we  were  immediately 
seized  with  fear  that  we  had  killed  him.  And  here, 
all  of  a  sudden,  what  a  blow !  And  the  house  was 
full  of  guests,  as  if  expressly ! 

Some  regiment  or  other  was  stationed  in  our  county 
town  that  year.  All  the  officers,  and  with  them  the 
colonel,  had  come  to  us  for  mama's  name-day,  and  had 
brought  the  regimental  baud,  by  way  of  a  surprise. 

The  festival  dinner  had  ended  about  three  hours 
before  this.  All  the  chandeliers  and  candelabra  in 
the  big  hall  up-stairs  were  lighted,  and  the  guests, 
who  had  had  time  to  rest  after  dinner  and  dress  for 
the  ball,  had  begun  to  assemble.  The  young  officers, 
panting  and  aching,  were  drawing  on  their  white 
gloves.  Airy  young  ladies,  in  tarletan  gowns  and 
huge  crinolines,  which  were  then  in  fashion,  were 
twisting  about  in  front  of  the  mirrors.  My  Aniuta 
generally  bore  herself  loftily  toward  all  this  com- 
pany, but  now  the  festive  surroundings,  the  ball  mu- 
sic, the  flood  of  lights,  the  consciousness  that  she  was 
the  handsomest  and  the  most  beautifully  dressed  wo- 
man at  the  ball,  all  these  things  intoxicated  her. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  115 

Forgetting  her  new  dignity  as  a  Russian  authoress, 
forgetting  how  little  resemblance  these  red,  perspir- 
ing young  officers  bore  to  the  ideal  men  of  whom  she 
dreamed,  she  flitted  about  before  them,  smiling  at 
each  and  all,  and  enjoying  the  conviction  that  she 
was  turning  the  heads  of  all. 

They  were  only  waiting  for  my  father's  appearance 
to  begin  dancing.  All  at  once  a  servant  entered  the 
room,  and  approaching  mama,  said  to  her :  "  His  Ex- 
cellency is  ill.  He  begs  you  to  come  to  his  study." 

Every  one  felt  alarmed.  Mama  rose  hastily,  and 
holding  up  the  train  of  her  heavy  silk  gown  with  her 
hand,  she  left  the  hall. 

The  musicians,  who  were  in  the  next  room  awaiting 
the  signal  agreed  upon  to  begin  a  quadrille,  were 
told  to  wait. 

Half  an  hour  elapsed.  The  guests  began  to  feel 
uneasy.  At  last  mama  returned;  her  face  was  red 
and  troubled,  but  she  tried  to  appear  composed,  and 
smiled  in  a  forced,  constrained  way.  To  the  anxious 
inquiries  of  the  guests,  "  What  is  the  matter  with  the 
General?"  she  replied  evasively:'  "Vasily  Vasilie- 
vitch  does  not  feel  quite  well ;  he  begs  that  you  will 
excuse  him  and  begin  the  dances  without  him." 

Every  one  observed  that  something  had  gone  wrong, 
but  out  of  courtesy  no  one  insisted  further $  moreover, 
every  one  wished  to  get  to  dancing  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, since  they  had  assembled  and  dressed  themselves 
for  that  purpose.  So  the  dancing  began. 

As  Aniuta  passed  mother  in  a  figure  of  the  qua- 
drille, she  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  read  in  them  that 
something  disagreeable  had  taken  place.  Taking  ad- 
vantage of  a  pause  between  two  dances,  she  took 
mama  aside  and  pressed  her  with  questions. 

"  What  have  you  done  !    All  is  discovered !     Papa 


110  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

has  read  Dostoevsky's  letter  to  you,  and  almost  died 
on  the  spot  with  shame  and  despair,"  said  poor  mania, 
with  difficulty  restraining  her  tears. 

Aniuta  turned  frightfully  pale,  but  mama  went  on : 
"  Please  to  control  yourself  for  the  present,  at  least. 
Remember  that  we  have  guests  who  would  all  be  glad 
of  a  chance  to  gossip  about  us.  Go  and  dance  as  if 
nothing  had  happened." 

Thus  my  mother  and  sister  continued  to  dance  un- 
til nearly  morning,  both  beside  themselves  with  fear 
at  the  thought  of  the  thunderstorm  which  was  ready 
to  break  over  their  heads  as  soon  as  the  guests  were 
gone. 

And,  in  fact,  a  terrible  thunderstorm  did  break. 

Until  every  one  was  gone,  papa  admitted  no  one  to 
a  sight  of  him,  and  sat  locked  up  in  his  study.  In 
the  pauses  between  the  dances,  my  mother  and  sister 
hastened  from  the  room  and  listened  at  his  door,  but 
dared  not  enter,  and  returned  to  their  guests  tor- 
mented by  the  thought,  "How  is  he  now?  Is  he 
ill?" 

When  all  was  quiet  in  the  house  he  summoned 
Aniuta  to  him,  and  what  did  he  not  say  to  her !  One 
phrase  of  his  in  particular  engraved  itself  upon  her 
mind :  "  Anything  may  be  expected  from  a  girl  who 
is  capable  of  entering  into  correspondence  with  a 
strange  man,  unknown  to  her  father  and  mother, 
and  receiving  money  from  him.  You  sell  your  nov- 
els now,  but  the  time  will  probably  come  when  you 
will  sell  yourself." 

Poor  Aniuta  fairly  turned  to  ice  when  she  heard 
these  dreadful  words.  Assuming  that  she  recognized 
in  her  soul  that  this  was  nonsense,  yet  father  spoke 
so  confidently,  in  a  tone  of  such  conviction, — his  face 
was  so  downcast,  afflicted,  and  his  authority,  in  her 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  117 

eyes,  was  still  so  powerful, — that  a  torturing  doubt  as- 
sailed her,  if  only  for  a  moment.  Had  she  not  made 
a  mistake  I  Had  she  not,  without  knowing  it,  com- 
mitted some  terrible  and  improper  act  ? 

For  several  days  thereafter,  every  one  in  the  house 
went  about  as  if  they  had  been  dipped  in  water,  as 
was  always  the  case  after  our  family  rows.  The  ser- 
vants found  out  all  about  it  at  once.  Papa's  valet, 
Ilya,  according  to  his  praiseworthy  custom,  had  lis- 
tened to  the  whole  of  father's  conversation  with  my 
sister,  and  explained  it  after  his  own  fashion.  The 
news  of  what  had  happened,  in  an  exaggerated  and 
distorted  version,  of  course,  made  its  way  through 
the  whole  vicinity,  and  for  a  long  time  afterward  the 
only  topic  of  conversation  among  the  neighbors  was 
the  "  horrible  "  conduct  of  the  young  lady  at  Palibino. 

Little  by  little  the  storm  subsided.  A  phenomenon 
took  place  in  our  family  which  often  happens  in  Rus- 
sian families  —  the  children  reeducated  the  parents. 
This  process  of  reeducation  began  with  mother.  At 
the  first  moment  she  took  his  part  thoroughly,  as  she 
always  did  in  all  disputes  between  father  and  us  chil- 
dren. She  was  afraid  that  he  would  fall  ill,  and  she 
was  angry.  How  could  Aniuta  grieve  her  father  so? 
But  when  she  saw  that  arguments  were  useless,  and 
that  Aniuta  went  about  sad  and  hurt,  she  felt  sorry 
for  her.  She  soon  developed  a  curiosity  to  read  Ani- 
uta's  story,  and  then  came  a  secret  pride  that  her 
daughter  was  an  authoress.  Thus  her  sympathies 
passed  over  to  Aniuta's  side,  and  father  felt  that  he 
was  entirely  alone. 

In  the  first  blush  of  his  wrath,  he  had  demanded 
from  his  daughter  a  promise  that  she  would  not  write 
any  more,  and  only  on  that  condition  would  he  con- 
sent to  pardon  her.  Of  course,  Aniuta  would  not 

8* 


118  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

consent  to  give  such  a  promise,  and  as  a  result,  they 
did  not  speak  to  each  other  for  days  together,  and  my 
sister  did  not  even  appear  at  dinner.  My  mother  ran 
from  one  to  the  other,  reconciling  and  persuading. 
At  last  father  yielded.  This  first  step  toward  yielding 
consisted  in  his  consenting  to  listen  to  Aniuta's  novel. 

The  reading  took  place  in  a  very  solemn  manner. 
All  the  family  assembled.  Fully  conscious  of  the  im- 
portance of  this  moment,  Aniuta  read  in  a  voice  which 
trembled  with  emotion.  The  situation  of  the  heroine, 
her  breaking  away  from  the  family  under  the  perse- 
cution of  the  oppressions  imposed  upon  her,  all  this 
so  closely  resembled  the  situation  of  the  author  her- 
self, that  it  was  patent  to  every  one. 

Father  listened  in  silence,  without  uttering  a  word 
during  the  whole  time  of  the  reading.  But  when 
Aniuta  reached  the  last  pages,  and  hardly  restraining 
her  own  sobs,  began  to  read  how  Lilenka  on  her  death- 
bed mourned  for  her  wasted  youth,  large  tears  sud- 
denly started  to  his  eyes.  He  rose,  without  saying  a 
word,  and  left  the  room.  He  did  not  speak  to  Aniuta 
about  her  story  either  that  evening  or  on  the  follow- 
ing day ;  he  only  treated  her  with  wonderful  gentle- 
ness and  tenderness,  and  all  the  family  understood 
that  her  cause  was  won. 

In  fact,  from  that  day  an  era  of  gentleness  and  con- 
cessions dawned  in  our  house.  The  first  manifesta- 
tion of  this  new  era  was  that  the  housekeeper,  whom 
father  had  dismissed  in  his  first  burst  of  passion, 
received  his  gracious  pardon  and  retained  her  place. 

The  second  measure  of  gentleness  was  still  more 
surprising.  Father  permitted  Aniuta  to  write  to  Dos- 
toevsky  on  condition  only  that  she  should  show  him 
the  letters,  and  promised  her  to  make  Dostoevsky's 
personal  acquaintance  on  his  next  visit  to  Petersburg. 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  119 

As  I  have  already  said,  mother  and  Aniuta  went 
nearly  every  winter  to  Petersburg,  where  they  had  a 
whole  colony  of  aunts,  all  spinsters.  They  occupied 
a  whole  house  on  Vasily  Island,  and  when  my  mother 
and  sister  arrived  they  gave  them  two  or  three  rooms. 
Father  usually  remained  in  the  country.  I  also  was 
left  at  home,  in  charge  of  the  governess.  But  this 
year,  as  the  Englishwoman  was  gone,  and  the  newly- 
arrived  seamstress  did  not  yet  enjoy  their  full  confi- 
dence, mother  decided,  to  my  inexpressible  delight,  to 
take  me  with  her. 

We  set  out  in  January,  taking  advantage  of  the 
last  good  winter  road.  The  journey  to  Petersburg 
was  no  easy  matter.  We  had  to  travel  for  sixty 
versts  on  a  road  connecting  two  large  villages,  with 
our  own  horses ;  then  two  hundred  on  the  highway, 
with  post-horses ;  and  at  last,  about  twenty-four  hours 
on  the  railway.  We  set  out  in  the  large  covered  car- 
riage, or  runners.  Mama,  Aniuta,  and  I  rode  in  it, 
and  it  was  drawn  by  six  horses,  while  in  front  went  a 
sledge  containing  the  maid  and  the  luggage,  drawn 
by  three  horses  with  bells,  and  throughout  the  whole 
journey  the  ringing  language  of  the  bells,  now  near, 
now  far,  now  quite  dying  away  in  the  distance,  then 
again  suddenly  resounding  in  our  very  ears,  accom- 
panied and  sang  a  lullaby  to  us. 

How  many  preparations  were  made  for  that  jour- 
ney! In  the  kitchen  they  cooked  and  roasted  as 
many  savory  things  as  would  have  sufficed,  I  think, 
for  a  whole  expedition.  Our  cook  was  renowned 
throughout  the  neighborhood  for  his  puff -paste,  and 
never  did  he  make  such  efforts  in  that  direction  as 
when  he  prepared  melting  patties  for  his  mistresses 
to  eat  on  the  journey. 

And  what  a  splendid  journey  it  was!    The  first 


120  S6NYA   KOVALfiVSKY 

sixty  versts  lay  through  a  pine  forest  of  thick  pines, 
fit  for  ships'  masts,  broken  only  by  a  multitude  of 
lakes  and  lakelets.  In  winter  these  lakes  became 
huge,  snowy  fields,  on  which  the  dark  pines  sur- 
rounding them  were  sharply  delineated. 

Traveling  was  delightful  by  day,  and  still  better 
by  night.  If  you  forgot  yourself  for  a  moment,  you 
were  awakened  by  a  jolt,  and  for  a  minute  you  could 
not  remember  where  you  were.  From  the  top  of  the 
carriage  hangs  a  small  traveling-lantern,  illuminating 
two  strange,  sleeping  figures,  in  big  fur-cloaks  and 
white  traveling-hoods.  I  cannot  at  once  recognize 
my  mother  and  sister.  Fantastic  silver  patterns  start 
out  on  the  windows  of  the  carriage ;  the  sleigh-bells 
jingle  incessantly  —  all  this  is  so  strange,  so  unusual, 
that  one  understands  nothing ;  only  one  feels  a  dull 
pain  in  one's  limbs,  caused  by  the  uncomfortable  atti- 
tude. All  at  once  consciousness  dawns  on  the  mind 
with  a  bright  gleam, —  of  where  we  are,  whither  we 
are  going,  and  so  much  that  is  good  and  new  which 
awaits  us, —  and  all  my  soul  is  filled  to  overflowing 
with  engrossing,  dazzling  happiness ! 

Yes,  that  was  a  splendid  journey !  And  it  remains 
almost  the  pleasantest  memory  of  my  childhood. 


ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  F.  M.   DOSTOEVSKY 

ON  arriving  in  Petersburg  Aniuta  immediately 
wrote  to  Dostoevsky,  and  asked  him  to  come  to 
us.  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  came  on  the  day  appointed. 
I  remember  with  what  a  fever  of  expectation  we 
awaited  him;  how  we  began  to  listen  to  every  ring  at 
the  door  for  a  whole  hour  before  his  appearance. 
But  his  first  visit  was  not  a  success. 

My  father,  as  I  have  already  said,  bore  himself  with 
great  distrust  toward  everything  which  proceeded 
from  the  world  of  literature.  Although  he  had  given 
my  sister  permission  to  make  Dostoevsky's  acquain- 
tance, it  was  only  with  great  reluctance,  and  not  with- 
out secret  alarm. 

"  Remember,  Liza,  that  a  great  responsibility  will 
rest  upon  you,"  were  his  last  words  to  my  mother,  as  he 
let  us  depart  from  the  country.  "  Dostoevsky  is  not 
a  man  of  our  society.  What  do  we  know  about  him  ? 
Only  that  he  is  a  journalist,  and  a  former  convict.1 
A  fine  recommendation!  There  's  no  disputing  it; 
you  must  be  very,  very  cautious  with  him." 

In  view  of  these  facts  my  father  gave  my  mother 
strict  orders  that  she  was  to  be  present  at  the  meet- 
ing between  Aniuta  and  Feodor  Mikhailovitch,  and 
not  to  leave  them  alone  together  for  a  single  moment. 

iDostoevsky  spent  five  years  (1849-54)  in  Siberia  for  being 
implicated  in  a  secret  political  society. — Trans. 

121 


122  SONYA  KOVALtfVSKY 

I  also  begged  permission  to  be  present  during  his  visit. 
Two  elderly  German  aunts  invented  pretexts  for  mak- 
ing their  appearance  in  the  room  from  moment  to 
moment,  and  stared  curiously  at  the  writer,  as  if  he 
had  been  some  sort  of  wild  animal;  and  at  last  it 
ended  in  their  seating  themselves  on  the  divan,  and 
remaining  there  till  the  end  of  his  visit. 

Aniuta  was  furious  that  her  first  meeting  with 
Dostoe"vsky,  of  which  she  had  dreamed  so  much  in 
advance,  should  take  place  under  such  petty  condi- 
tions; assuming  her  angry  mien,  she  maintained  a 
persistent  silence.  It  was  awkward  for  Fe6dor  Mik- 
hailovitch  also,  and  he  was  not  himself  in  this 
constrained  atmosphere.  He  grew  confused  among 
all  these  elderly  ladies,  and  he  got  vexed.  He  seemed 
old  and  ill  that  day,  as  he  always  did  when  he  was  not 
in  good  spirits.  The  whole  time  he  kept  plucking 
nervously  at  his  thin  reddish  beard,  and  biting  his  lips, 
which  distorted  his  face. 

Mama  tried  with  all  her  might  to  start  an  interest- 
ing conversation.  With  the  amiable  society  smile 
which  was  peculiar  to  her,  she  tried  to  find  something 
agreeable  and  flattering  to  say  to  him,  and  something 
interesting  to  ask  him,  but  it  was  evident  that  she 
felt  timid. 

Dosto6vsky  replied  in  monosyllables  with  premedi- 
tated discourtesy.  At  last,  finding  herself  at  the  end 
of  her  resources,  mama  fell  into  silence  also.  After 
sitting  with  us  for  half  an  hour,  Fe6dor  Mikhailo- 
vitch  took  up  his  hat,  and  went  away  with  a  hasty 
awkward  bow,  and  without  having  shaken  hands 
with  any  one. 

When  he  disappeared  Aniuta  ran  off  to  her  own 
room,  and  flinging  herself  on  the  bed  she  burst  into 
tears.  "They  always,  always  ruin  everything,"  she 
repeated,  as  she  sobbed  convulsively. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  123 

Poor  mama  felt  herself  in  the  wrong,  yet  innocent. 
She  felt  hurt  that  after  all  her  efforts  to  please  every 
one,  every  one  should  be  angry  precisely  with  her. 
She  began  to  cry  also.  "  You  are  always  like  that,  dis- 
satisfied with  everything.  Father  did  as  you  wished, 
allowed  you  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  your  ideal. 
I  have  listened  to  his  rudeness  for  a  whole  hour,  and 
now  you  blame  us,"  she  reproached  her  daughter,  weep- 
ing like  a  child  herself. 

In  a  word  every  one  felt  wretched;  and  this  visit, 
to  which  we  had  looked  forward  with  such  expecta- 
tions, for  which  we  had  made  such  preparations,  left 
behind  it  a  very  painful  impression. 

But  five  days  later  Dostoevsky  came  again,  and  this 
time  his  visit  was  the  height  of  success.  Neither 
mama  nor  my  aunts  were  at  home;  my  sister  and  I 
were  alone,  and  the  ice  thawed  immediately.  Feodor 
Mikhailovitch  took  Aniuta  by  the  hand,  they  sat  down 
side  by  side  on  the  divan,  and  immediately  began  to 
talk  like  old,  intimate  friends.  The  conversation  no 
longer  dragged  as  on  the  last  occasion,  limping  pain- 
fully from  one  uninteresting  subject  to  another. 
Now  both  Aniuta  and  Dostoevsky  seemed  to  be  in 
great  haste  to  have  their  say,  interrupted  each  other, 
jested  and  laughed. 

I  sat  there,  taking  no  part  in  the  conversation,  with 
my  eyes  fixed  immovably  on  Feodor  Mikhailovitch, 
eagerly  drinking  in  all  that  he  said.  He  seemed  to 
me  now  quite  another  man,  quite  young  and  very 
simple,  amiable,  and  clever.  "  He  can't  be  forty-three 
already,"  I  thought.  "It  is  not  possible  that  he  is 
three  and  a  half  times  older  than  I,  and  more  than 
twice  as  old  as  my  sister.  And  yet  he  is  a  great 
writer.  One  can  treat  him  just  like  a  comrade."  And 
then  I  felt  that  he  had  become  indescribably  dear  and 
near  to  me. 


124  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

"  What  a  splendid  little  sister  you  have ! "  said  Dos- 
toeVsky  all  at  once,  quite  unexpectedly,  although  a 
minute  previously  he  had  been  talking  to  Aniuta  of 
something  entirely  different,  and  seemed  to  be  paying 
no  attention  to  me. 

I  flushed  all  over  with  joy,  and  my  heart  was  filled 
with  gratitude  to  my  sister  when,  in  reply  to  this 
remark,  Aniuta  began  to  relate  to  Fe6dor  Mikhailo- 
vitch  what  a  good,  clever  little  girl  I  was;  and  how  I 
was  the  only  member  of  the  family  who  sympathized 
with  her.  She  grew  very  animated,  praised  me,  and 
invented  unheard-of  merits  in  me.  In  conclusion  she 
even  confided  to  DostoeVsky  that  I  wrote  verses — 
"  Really,  really,  not  bad  at  all  for  her  age ! "  And 
despite  my  feeble  protest,  she  ran  out  and  brought  a 
thick  copy-book  of  my  rhymes,  of  which  Fe6dor  Mik- 
hailovitch  immediately  read  two  or  three  fragments, 
smiling  the  while,  and  which  he  praised. 

My  sister  beamed  with  satisfaction.  Heavens !  how 
I  loved  her  at  that  moment!  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  would  give  my  life  for  those  two  dear  people. 

Three  hours  passed  unperceived.  All  at  once  the  bell 
rang  in  the  vestibule.  It  was  mama  returning  from 
the  bazaar.  Not  knowing  that  Dostoevsky  was  with 
us,  she  entered  the  room  with  her  bonnet  on,  all  la- 
den down  with  packages,  and  excusing  herself  for  being 
a  little  late  for  dinner. 

On  seeing  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  thus  at  his  ease, 
alone  with  us,  she  was  dreadfully  startled  and  even 
alarmed  at  first.  "What  would  Vasily  Vasilievitch 
say  to  this  ? "  was  her  first  thought.  But  we  threw 
ourselves  on  her  neck;  and  seeing  us  so  happy  and 
beaming,  she  thawed  also,  and  ended  by  inviting 
Fe6dor  Mikhailovitch  to  dine  with  us  informally. 

From  that  day  forth  he  became  an  entirely  dif- 


BECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  125 

f  erent  man  when  lie  was  in  our  house ;  and  in  view 
of  the  fact  that  our  stay  in  Petersburg  was  not  to 
be  long,  he  began  to  come  to  us  very  often — three 
or  four  times  a  week. 

It  was  especially  pleasant  when  he  came  in  the  even- 
ing, and  when  there  were  no  other  visitors.  Then 
he  brightened  up,  and  became  unusually  agreeable 
and  attractive.  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  could  not  en- 
dure general  conversation;  he  talked  only  in  mono- 
logues, and  that  only  on  condition  that  all  present 
were  in  sympathy  with  him,  and  listened  to  him  with 
strained  attention.  On  the  other  hand,  if  these  condi- 
tions were  fulfilled,  he  could  talk  better,  more  pictur- 
esquely, and  more  vividly,  than  any  other  person  I 
ever  heard. 

Sometimes  he  related  to  us  the  contents  of  the 
romances  he  had  conceived,  sometimes  scenes  and 
episodes  from  his  own  life.  I  remember  vividly  for 
example  how  he  described  the  moments  when  he  was 
obliged  to  stand  condemned  to  be  shot,  with  bound 
eyes,  before  the  file  of  soldiers,  awaiting  the  fatal 
command,  "  Fire ! " — when  suddenly  instead  of  that 
the  drums  began  to  beat,  and  the  news  of  the  commu- 
tation of  his  sentence  arrived. 

I  remember  still  another  of  his  stories.  My  sister 
and  I  knew  that  Fe6dor  Mikhailovitch  suffered  from 
epilepsy;  but  that  disease  was  surrounded  in  our  eyes 
with  such  a  magic  terror  that  we  could  never  make  up 
oui'  minds  to  touch  the  subject,  even  with  the  remotest 
hint.  To  our  amazement  he  began  himself  to  speak 
of  it,  and  told  us  under  what  circumstances  he  had 
his  first  attack.  Afterward  I  heard  another  totally 
different  version  of  the  affair  —  to  the  effect  that 
Dostoevsky  acquired  epilepsy  through  the  beatings 
with  rods  to  which  he  was  subjected  in  the  Siberian 


126  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

prison.  These  two  versions  are  not  in  the  least  alike. 
I  do  not  know  which  is  true,  as  many  doctors  have  as- 
sured me  that  almost  all  persons  who  suffer  from  this 
disease  present  one  typical  characteristic — that  they 
forget  how  it  began  with  them,  and  are  constantly 
indulging  in  fancies  on  that  subject. 

At  any  rate,  this  is  what  Dostoevsky  told  us.  He 
said  that  the  disease  began  with  him  when  he  was  no 
longer  in  prison,  but  among  the  colonists.1  He  grew 
frightfully  weary  of  the  solitude,  and  for  months  at  a 
time  he  never  saw  a  living  soul  with  whom  he  could 
exchange  a  rational  word.  All  at  once,  quite  unex- 
pectedly, one  of  his  old  comrades  came  to  him  (I  have 
now  forgotten  the  name  which  Dostoevsky  mentioned). 
This  was  on  Easter  Eve.  But  in  the  joy  of  seeing  each 
other  again,  they  forgot  what  night  it  was,  and  sat 
straight  through  it  at  home,  engaged  in  conversation, 
and  paying  no  heed  either  to  time  or  fatigue,  but  in- 
toxicating themselves  with  words. 

They  were  talking  about  what  both  valued  most  — 
literature,  art,  and  philosophy;  of  course,  they  touched 
at  last  on  religion. 

His  comrade  was  an  atheist ;  Dostoevsky,  a  Chris- 
tian ;  and  both  were  hotly  convinced,  each  of  his  own 
position. 

"There  is  a  God;  indeed  there  is!"  shouted  Dos- 
toevsky, at  last,  beside  himself  with  excitement.  At 
that  moment  the  bells  of  the  neighboring  church  be- 
gan pealing  for  the  Easter  mass.  The  air  hummed 
and  throbbed  with  them.  "  And  I  felt,"  said  Feodor 
Mikhailovitch,  "  that  heaven  had  come  down  to  earth 
and  swallowed  me  up.  I  positively  attained  to  God, 
and  was  permeated  by  him.  '  Yes,  there  is  a  God !'  I 
shouted,  and  I  remember  nothing  more." 

1  In  Siberia,  after  release  from  prison. — Trans, 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  127 

"  All  you  healthy  people,"  he  continued,  "  have  no 
conception  of  the  bliss  which  we  epileptics  feel  a  sec- 
ond before  the  fit  comes  on.  Mahomet  asserts  in  the 
Koran  that  he  had  seen  heaven  and  been  there.  All 
clever  fools  are  convinced  that  he  is  simply  a  liar  and 
a  fraud.  But  no !  he  does  not  lie !  He  really  was  in 
paradise  during  a  fit  of  epilepsy,  from  which  he  suf- 
fered, as  I  suffer.  I  do  not  know  whether  this  bliss 
lasts  seconds,  or  hours,  or  months,  but  you  may  take 
my  word  for  it,  I  would  not  exchange  it  for  all  the 
joys  which  life  can  give ! " 

Dostoevsky  uttered  the  last  words  in  the  passion- 
ate, broken  whisper  which  was  peculiar  to  him.  We 
all  sat  as  if  we  had  been  magnetized,  wholly  under 
the  influence  of  his  words.  All  at  once  the  same 
thought  occurred  to  all  of  us  —  is  he  going  to  have  a 
fit  now  f 

His  mouth  was  twitching  nervously ;  his  whole  face 
was  distorted. 

Dostoevsky  probably  read  our  alarm  in  our  eyes. 
He  suddenly  broke  off,  drew  his  hand  across  his  face, 
and  smiled  bitterly. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said ;  "  I  always  know  before- 
hand when  it  is  coming  on." 

We  felt  awkward  and  conscience-stricken  that  he 
should  have  divined  our  thought,  and  we  knew  not 
what  to  say.  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  took  his  depart- 
ure soon  after,  and  told  us  afterward  that  he  really 
did  have  a  severe  attack  that  night. 

Sometimes  Dostoevsky  was  very  realistic  in  his 
speech,  quite  forgetting  that  he  was  speaking  in  the 
presence  of  ladies.  He  sometimes  horrified  my  mo- 
ther. For  example :  One  day  he  began  to  tell  about 
a  scene  in  a  romance  which  he  had  invented  while 
he  was  still  veiy  young.  The  hero,  a  middle-aged 


128  SCNYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

landed  proprietor,  has  been  well  and  elegantly  edu- 
cated, and  has  been  abroad,  reads  learned  books,  buys 
pictures  and  engravings.  He  has  been  wild  in  his 
youth,  but  has  settled  down  later  on;  has  become  pos- 
sessed of  a  wife  and  children,  and  enjoys  universal 
respect. 

One  morning  he  wakes  early,  and  the  rising  sun  is 
peeping  in  at  his  window.  Everything  around  him  is 
very  clean,  nice,  and  comfortable,  and  he  feels  himself 
clean  and  respectable.  His  whole  body  is  permeated 
with  a  sensation  of  contentment  and  repose.  Like  a 
genuine  sybarite,  he  makes  no  haste  to  rouse  him- 
self wholly,  in  order  that  he  may  prolong,  as  much 
as  possible,  this  agreeable  state  of  general,  vegetating 
well-being. 

Halting  on  a  sort  of  middle  point  between  sleep  and 
waking,  he  mentally  reviews  the  various  best  mo- 
ments in  his  recent  trip  abroad.  Again  he  sees  the  won- 
derful streak  of  light  falling  on  the  bare  shoulders 
of  Saint  Cecilia  in  the  Munich  gallery.  Some  very 
clever  passages  also  recur  to  his  mind,  from  a  book 
which  he  has  recently  read,  "about  the  beauty  and 
harmony  of  the  world." 

Suddenly,  at  the  very  height  of  these  pleasant  rev- 
eries, and  living  over  of  the  past,  he  feels  uncomfort- 
able —  it  is  not  exactly  an  internal  pain,  not  exactly 
uneasiness.  It  is  the  sort  of  thing  which  happens 
with  people  who  have  old  gunshot  wounds,  from 
which  the  ball  has  not  been  extracted.  A  moment 
ago  there  was  no  pain,  and  suddenly  the  old  wound 
begins  to  gnaw,  and  gnaw,  and  gnaw. 

Our  landed  proprietor  begins  to  think  and  to  reflect: 
what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  He  has  no  pain ;  he  has 
no  grief ;  but  it  seems  as  if  cats  were  clawing  at  his 
heart,  and  it  gets  worse  and  worse.  It  begins  to  seem 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  129 

to  him  that  he  must  remember  something,  and  he 
tries,  and  strains  his  memory  in  the  effort.  And  sud- 
denly he  does  remember,  and  very  vividly,  very  realis- 
tically, the  aversion  which  filled  his  being,  as  plainly 
as  if  it  had  happened  the  night  before  instead  of 
twenty  years  ago.  But  for  these  twenty  years  past 
it  has  not  troubled  him  a  whit. 

He  remembers  how,  once,  after  a  night  of  dissipa- 
tion, and  spurred  on  by  his  drunken  companions,  he 
injured  a  child. 

My  mother  simply  clasped  her  hands  in  horror  when 
Dostoevsky  said  this. 

"  Fe6dor  Mikhailovitch !  For  mercy's  sake !  The 
children  are  present!"  she  said,  entreatingly,  in  a 
voice  of  desperation. 

I  did  not  understand,  at  the  time,  what  Dostoevsky 
had  said,  but  I  guessed  from  mama's  anger  that  it 
must  be  something  dreadful. 

However,  mama  and  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  soon  be- 
came excellent  friends.  My  mother  liked  him  very 
much,  although  she  had  to  endure  a  good  deal  from 
him  at  times. 

Toward  the  end  of  our  stay  in  Petersburg,  mama 
took  it  into  her  head  to  give  a  farewell  party,  and  in- 
vite all  her  acquaintances.  Of  course  she  invited  Dos- 
toevsky. He  refused,  for  a  long  time,  but  mama  suc- 
ceeded in  persuading  him,  to  her  own  undoing. 

Our  party  turned  out  very  stupid.  As  my  parents 
had  lived  for  ten  years  in  the  country,  they  had  no 
real  society  "of  their  own"  in  Petersburg.  There 
were  various  old  friends  and  acquaintances  whom 
life  had  long  since  dispersed  in  various  directions. 

Some  of  these  acquaintances  had  succeeded  in 
making  for  themselves  very  brilliant  careers  in 
those  ten  years,  and  in  attaining  to  a  very  high 


130  S6NYA  KOVAL^VSKT 

rung  on  the  society  ladder.  Others,  on  the  con- 
trary, had  become  impoverished,  and  dragged  out 
a  wretched  existence  in  the  distant  streets  of  Vasily 
Island,1  hardly  managing  to  make  both  ends  meet. 
These  people  had  nothing  in  common.  Nearly  all  of 
them,  however,  accepted  mama's  invitation,  and  came 
to  our  party,  out  of  old  memory  of  "  that  poor,  dear 
Liza." 

The  company  which  assembled  was  rather  large 
and  greatly  mixed.  Among  the  guests  were  the  wife 
and  daughters  of  one  Cabinet  Minister  (the  Minister 
himself  promised  to  look  in  for  a  moment  toward  the 
end  of  the  evening,  but  did  not  keep  his  word).  There 
was  also  a  very  old,  bald,  and  very  pompous  German 
official  personage,  of  whom  I  remember  only  that  he 
smacked  the  lips  of  his  toothless  mouth  very  ridicu- 
lously, and  kept  kissing  mama's  hand  and  saying: 
"  She  was  fery  britty,  your  mother.  Neither  of  her 
taughters  is  so  britty ! " 

There  was  a  ruined  landed  proprietor  from  the  Bal- 
tic Provinces,  who  lived  in  Petersburg  in  unsuccessful 
search  after  a  lucrative  post.  There  were  many  re- 
spectable widows  and  elderly  spinsters,  and  several 
old  academicians  who  had  been  friends  of  my  grand- 
father. The  prevailing  element  was  German,  stately, 
airy,  and  colorless. 

My  aunts'  apartment  was  very  spacious,  but  con- 
sisted of  a  multitude  of  tiny  cells,  encumbered  with  a 
mass  of  useless,  ugly  little  trifles  and  stuff  collected 
during  the  whole  long  lives  of  two  precise,  active  Ger- 
mans. The  large  number  of  guests  and  the  multitude 

1  Vasily  Island,  a  sxiburb,  situated  across  the  Neva,  much  in 
the  same  position  as  Brooklyn  occupies  to  New  York,  but  an  in- 
tegral part  of  the  city,  containing  the  University,  Academy  of 
Fine  Arts,  and  so  forth. — Trans. 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  131 

of  candles  rendered  the  atmosphere  stifling.  Two  men- 
servants,  in  tail-coats  and  white  gloves,  carried  around 
trays  with  tea,  fruits,  and  sweets.  My  mother,  who  had 
grown  unused  to  city  life,  which  she  had  formerly 
loved  so  well,  was  in  a  state  of  inward  trepidation 
and  excitement.  "Was  everything  as  it  should  be? 
Was  n't  it  too  old-fashioned,  too  countryfied  ?  "Would 
not  her  former  friends  think  that  she  had  fallen  be- 
hind their  social  circle  f 

The  guests  had  nothing  to  do  with  each  other.  They 
were  all  dreadfully  bored,  but,  like  well-bred  people, 
for  whom  wearisome  parties  constitute  one  of  the 
inevitable  ingredients  of  life,  they  submitted  unnrar- 
muringly  to  their  fate,  and  bore  all  this  dullness  he- 
roically. 

But  it  is  easy  to  imagine  what  happened  to  poor 
Dostoevsky  when  he  fell  into  this  society !  Both  in 
figure  and  appearance  he  presented  a  sharp  contrast 
to  all  the  others.  In  a  fit  of  self-sacrifice  he  had 
deemed  it  requisite  to  don  an  evening  suit,  and  this 
dress,  which  set  badly  on  him,  enraged  him  during 
the  whole  evening.  He  began  to  get  angry  from  the 
very  moment  when  he  set  foot  across  the  threshold  of 
the  drawing-room.  Like  all  nervous  people,  he  felt 
an  irritating  confusion  when  he  got  into  a  company 
of  strangers,  and  the  more  stupid,  the  more  unsympa- 
thetic, the  more  insignificant  this  company  was,  the 
more  dire  was  his  confusion.  Excited  by  this  feeling 
of  vexation,  he  was  desirous  of  venting  it  on  some  one. 

My  mother  made  haste  to  present  him  to  the  guests; 
but  in  place  of  a  greeting  he  muttered  something 
unintelligible,  resembling  a  growl,  and  turned  his 
back  on  them.  But  worst  of  all,  he  immediately 
exhibited  an  intention  to  monopolize  Aniuta.  He 
carried  her  off  to  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room,  and 


132  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

showed  a  decided  resolve  not  to  release  her.  This  of 
course  was  in  direct  contravention  of  all  the  usages 
of  society.  Moreover  his  manner  with  her  was  any- 
thing but  that  demanded  by  society:  he  took  her 
hand;  when  he  spoke  to  her  he  bent  down  to  her  ear. 
Aniuta  felt  awkward,  and  my  mother  was  beside  her- 
self. At  first  she  tried  "delicately"  to  give  Dosto- 
evsky  to  understand  that  his  behavior  was  impolite. 
As  she  passed  them,  apparently  by  accident,  she  called 
my  sister,  and  tried  to  send  her  off  on  an  errand. 
Aniuta  tried  to  rise,  but  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  de- 
tained her  with  the  utmost  coolness:  "  No,  stay,  Anna 
Vasilievna;  I  have  not  done  talking  with  you." 

At  last  my  mother  lost  all  patience  and  flared  up. 

"Excuse  me,  Fe6dor  Mikhailovitch,  but  as  the 
hostess  she  must  busy  herself  with  other  guests  also," 
she  said  very  sharply,  and  led  my  sister  away. 

Feodor  Mikhailovitch  became  thoroughly  enraged, 
and  settling  himself  in  the  corner  he  maintained  an 
obstinate  silence,  glaring  viciously  at  all  present  the 
while. 

Among  the  guests  was  one  for  whom  he  conceived, 
a  special  hatred  at  the  very  first  minute.  This  was 
a  distant  relative  of  ours  on  the  Schubert  side;  he 
was  a  young  German,  an  officer  in  one  of  the  regi- 
ments of  the  guards.  He  considered  himself  a  very 
brilliant  young  man;  he  was  handsome,  and  clever, 
and  well-educated,  and  received  in  the  best  society 
— all  this  in  proper  measure,  and  not  in  excess.  In 
his  career  he  had  also  done  what  was  proper,  not  with 
arrogant  swiftness,  but  solidly,  respectably;  he  had 
understood  how  to  please  the  right  people,  but 
without  openly  seeking  it,  and  without  public  toady- 
ing. By  right  of  his  relationship  he  courted  his 
cousin,  when  he  met  her  at  their  aunts';  but  he  did 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  133 

this  also  in  proper  measure,  not  that  every  one  should 
observe  it,  but  only  in  a  way  to  make  it  understood 
that  "  he  had  views." 

As  is  usual  in  such  cases,  all  our  family  knew  that 
he  was  a  possible  and  a  desirable  match ;  but  all  pre- 
tended that  they  suspected  no  such  possibility.  Even 
my  mother,  when  she  remained  alone  with  my  aunts, 
could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  touch  upon  this  deli- 
cate question  otherwise  than  by  half  words  and  hints. 

It  was  enough  for  Dostoevsky  to  take  one  glance 
at  this  handsome,  well-formed,  self-satisfied  person,  to 
make  him  immediately  hate  him  to  madness. 

The  young  cuirassier,  picturesquely  posed  in  an 
arm-chair,  was  displaying  in  all  their  beauty  his  fash- 
ionably made  trousers,  which  fitted  closely  his  long, 
shapely  legs.  Jingling  his  epaulets,  and  bending 
slightly  over  my  sister,  he  related  something  amusing 
to  her.  Aniuta,  still  confused  by  the  recent  episode 
with  Dostoevsky,  listened  to  him  with  her  rather  ste- 
reotyped, drawing-room  smile,  "  the  smile  of  a  tender 
angel,"  as  the  English  governess  viciously  designated  it. 

Feodor  Mikhailovitch  looked  at  this  group,  and  a 
whole  romance  immediately  took  form  in  his  brain. 
Aniuta  hated  and  despised  this  "horrid  little  Ger- 
man," this  "  conceited,  impudent  fellow,"  but  her  pa- 
rents wished  to  marry  her  to  him,  and  were  throw- 
ing them  together  in  every  possible  way.  Of  course 
the  whole  party  had  been  arranged  exclusively  with 
that  object.  Having  concocted  this  romance,  Dostoe- 
sky  immediately  put  faith  in  it,  and  flew  into  a  fright- 
ful rage. 

The  fashionable  topic  of  conversation  that  winter 
was  a  little  book  published  by  some  English  clergy- 
man or  other — containing  a  comparison  between  the 
Russian  State  Church  and  Protestantism.  In  this 

9* 


134  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

Russo-High-German  circle  this  was  a  topic  which  in- 
terested all,  and  when  the  conversation  turned  upon 
it,  it  grew  more  animated.  Mama,  who  was  herself 
a  German,  remarked  that  one  of  the  advantages  of 
Protestantism  over  the  Russian  State  Church  was 
that  Protestants  read  the  gospels  more. 

"  But  were  the  gospels  written  for  society  women?" 
suddenly  burst  out  Dostoevsky,  who  had  hitherto  pre- 
served an  obstinate  silence.  "It  is  written  there,  'In 
the  beginning  God  created  man  and  wife/  or  again, 
'The  man  shall  leave  his  father  and  mother  and 
cleave  to  his  wife.'  That 's  the  way  Christ  understood 
marriage.  But  what  would  be  said  of  it  by  the  mamas 
who  think  of  nothing  but  of  how  to  get  their  daugh- 
ters off  their  hands  in  the  most  profitable  manner." 

Dostoevsky  uttered  this  with  unusual  pathos.  In 
accordance  with  his  habit  when  he  was  excited,  he  had 
drawn  himself  into  a  heap,  and  fairly  fired  off  his 
words.  They  produced  a  wonderful  effect.  All  the 
well-bred  Germans  held  their  peace,  and  stared  at 
him.  It  was  only  after  the  lapse  of  several  seconds 
that  they  all  comprehended  the  full  awkwardness  of 
what  had  been  said,  and  then  all  began  to  talk  at 
once  in  the  endeavor  to  drown  his  voice. 

Dostoevsky  cast  one  more  withering  glance  at  all  of 
them,  then  retreated  again  into  his  corner,  and  never 
uttered  another  word  the  whole  evening. 

The  next  time  he  made  his  appearance  at  our  house, 
mama  tried  to  receive  him  coldly,  to  show  him  that 
she  felt  insulted;  but  her  wonderful  kindness  and 
gentleness  never  allowed  her  to  be  angry  long  with 
any  one,  least  of  all  with  a  man  like  Feodor  Mikhailo- 
vitch ;  so  they  soon  became  friends  again,  and  every- 
thing went  on  as  before  with  them. 

On  the  other  hand  Aniuta's  relations  to  Dostoevsky 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  135 

seemed  to  have  undergone  a  complete  change  after 
that  evening — they  seemed  to  have  entered  upon  a 
new  phase  of  existence.  Dostoevsky  entirely  ceased 
to  over-awe  Aniuta;  on  the  contrary  she  even  mani- 
fested a  desire  to  contradict  him,  to  tease  him.  But 
he,  on  his  side,  began  to  display  an  unwonted  ner- 
vousness and  irritability  toward  her.  He  began  to 
demand  an  account  of  how  she  had  spent  the  day 
when  he  had  not  been  at  our  house,  and  to  bear  him- 
self with  a  hostile  attitude  toward  all  those  people 
for  whom  she  showed  any  enthusiasm.  He  did  not 
come  to  us  any  less  frequently;  his  visits  were  even 
more  frequent  than  before,  although  he  spent  most 
of  the  time  in  quarrels  with  my  sister. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  acquaintance  my  sister  had 
been  ready  to  give  up  every  pleasure,  to  refuse  every 
invitation  on  those  days  when  she  expected  Dostoev- 
sky; and  if  he  were  in  the  room,  she  had  paid  no  at- 
tention to  any  one  else.  But  now  all  this  was  changed. 
If  he  came  when  we  had  visitors,  she  remained  calmly 
seated,  and  continued  to  entertain  her  guests.  It  even 
happened  that  she  was  invited  somewhere  on  the 
evening  when  it  had  been  arranged  that  he  should 
come  to  see  her,  in  which  case  she  wrote  to  him  and 
excused  herself. 

On  the  following  day  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  came, 
still  in  a  rage.  Aniuta  pretended  that  she  did  not 
observe  his  bad  humor,  took  her  work,  and  began  to 
embroider. 

This  enraged  Dostoevsky  more  than  ever;  he  sat 
down  in  the  corner  and  remained  persistently  silent. 
My  sister  was  silent  also. 

"  Come,  put  away  your  embroidery,"  Fe6dor  Mik- 
hailovitch said  at  last,  unable  to  restrain  his  temper, 
and  took  her  embroidery  out  of  her  hands. 


136  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

My  sister  folded  her  hands  submissively  on  her  lap, 
and  remained  silent. 

"  Where  were  you  last  night  ? "  asks  Feodor  Mik- 
hailovitch,  wrathfully. 

"  At  a  ball,"  replies  my  sister,  indifferently. 

"  And  you  danced  ? " 

"  Of  course." 

"  With  your  second  cousin  ?  " 

"  With  him  and  with  others." 

"  And  that  amuses  you  ?  "  Dostoevsky  continues  his 
catechism.  Aniuta  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"  In  the  absence  of  something  better,  that  is  amus- 
ing," she  replies,  and  takes  up  her  embroidery  again. 

Dostoevsky  glares  at  her  in  silence  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 

"  You  are  an  empty-headed,  silly,  naughty  little  girl; 
that 's  what  you  are ! "  he  says,  decisively,  at  last. 

That  was  the  spirit  in  which  conversation  was  now 
conducted  at  our  house. 

A  constant  and  very  burning  subject  of  quarrels 
between  them  was  nihilism.  The  disputes  on  this 
point  often  lasted  until  long  after  midnight,  and  the 
longer  they  both  talked  the  warmer  they  grew,  and  in 
the  heat  of  discussion  they  expressed  far  more  extreme 
opinions  than  they  really  held. 

"  All  the  young  people  of  the  present  day  are  dull 
and  half  educated ! "  Dosto6vsky  sometimes  exclaimed. 
"  They  think  more  of  soft-boiled  boots l  than  they  do 
of  Pushkin ! " 

"Pushkin  has,  indeed,  become  old-fashioned  for 
our  day,"  my  sister  would  remark  calmly,  knowing  well 

1  This  sentiment,  expressed  by  a  revolutionary  writer,  has 
become  proverbial.  The  expression  used  declares  that  boots, 
cooked  like  soft-boiled  eggs,  were  better  than  all  Pushkin. — 
Trans. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  137 

that  nothing  so  enraged  him  as  disrespect  toward 
Pushkin. 

Dostoevsky,  beside  himself  with  wrath,  sometimes 
snatched  up  his  hat  and  departed,  solemnly  declaring 
that  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  a  little  nihilist,  and 
that  he  would  never  set  foot  in  our  house  again.  But 
he  came  again  the  next  day,  of  course,  just  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened. 

In  proportion  as  Dostoevsky's  relations  with  my  sis- 
ter became  strained,  my  friendship  for  him  increased. 
I  was  more  enthusiastic  over  him  every  day,  and  com- 
pletely subject  to  his  influence.  Naturally  he  noticed 
my  boundless  adoration  of  him,  and  it  pleased  him.  He 
was  always  holding  me  up  to  my  sister  as  an  example. 

It  would  happen  that  Dostoevsky  related  some  pro- 
found or  talented  paradox,  in  contravention  of  ac- 
cepted morality,  and  my  sister  would  suddenly  take 
it  into  her  head  to  pretend  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand. My  eyes  were  beaming  with  rapture,  but  she, 
with  the  express  purpose  of  angering  him,  would  re- 
ply with  some  stale,  threadbare  truth. 

"  You  have  a  worthless,  insignificant  little  soul ! " 
Feodor  Mikhailovitch  would  then  cry  hotly.  "  It  's 
quite  another  matter  with  your  sister!  She  is  still 
a  child,  but  she  understands  me,  because  she  has  a 
sensitive  soul!" 

I  blushed  all  over  with  pleasure,  and,  had  it  been 
necessary,  I  would  have  allowed  myself  to  be  cut  in 
pieces,  to  prove  to  him  that  I  understood  him.  In  the 
depths  of  my  soul  I  was  very  content  that  Dostoevsky 
no  longer  exhibited  for  my  sister  such  enthusiasm  as 
in  the  beginning  of  their  friendship.  I  was  greatly 
ashamed  of  this  feeling.  I  reproached  myself  for  it, 
regarding  it  somewhat  in  the  light  of  treason  toward 
my  sister ;  and  entering  into  an  unconscious  compro- 


138  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

mise  with  my  conscience,  I  tried  to  redeem  my  secret 
sin  against  her  by  particular  obligingness  and  amia- 
bility toward  her.  But  the  pangs  of  conscience  did 
not  prevent  my  feeling  a  certain  jubilation  every  time 
that  Aniuta  and  Dostoevsky  quarreled. 

Fe6dor  Mikhailovitch  called  me  his  friend,  and  I 
very  ingenuously  believed  that  I  stood  nearer  to  him 
than  did  my  elder  sister,  and  that  I  understood  him 
better  than  she  did.  He  even  praised  my  personal 
appearance,  to  the  disparagement  of  Aniuta's. 

"You  imagine  that  you  are  very  handsome,"  he 
said  to  my  sister;  "but  your  little  sister  will  be  much 
handsomer  than  you  in  course  of  time.  She  has  a 
more  expressive  face,  and  the  eyes  of  a  gipsy !  But 
you  are  merely  a  tolerably  comely  little  German, 
that  's  what  you  are!" 

Aniuta  smiled  disdainfully;  but  I  drank  in  this  un- 
precedented laudation  of  my  beauty  with  rapture. 

"  But  perhaps  it  is  true,"  I  said  to  myself,  with  sink- 
ing heart ;  and  I  began  even  to  be  seriously  troubled 
with  the  thought — how  was  it  that  my  sister  was  not 
annoyed  by  the  preference  which  Dostoevsky  exhib- 
ited for  me  f 

I  longed  greatly  to  know  for  certain  what  Aniuta 
herself  thought  of  all  this,  and  whether  it  were  true 
that  I  was  destined  to  become  beautiful  when  I  should 
be  fully  grown  up.  This  last  thought  interested  me 
especially. 

In  Petersburg  my  sister  and  I  slept  in  the  same 
room,  and  at  night,  when  we  were  undressing,  our 
most  intimate  conferences  took  place. 

Aniuta  usually  stood  in  front  of  the  mirror  brush- 
ing her  long,  golden  hair,  and  plaiting  it  into  two 
braids  for  the  night.  This  operation  required  a  good 
deal  of  time ;  her  hair  was  very  thick  and  silky,  and 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  139 

she  enjoyed  passing  her  comb  through  it.  I  sat  on 
the  bed,  already  fully  undressed,  with  my  arms  clasped 
round  my  knees,  and  meditating  how  I  could  begin 
the  conversation  which  interested  me. 

"  What  ridiculous  things  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  said 
to-day ! "  I  began,  at  last,  endeavoring  to  appear  as 
indifferent  as  possible.  "What  were  they1?"  asked 
my  sister,  in  an  absent-minded  way,  having  evidently 
quite  forgotten  the  conversation  which  was  so  impor- 
tant to  me.  "  About  my  having  gipsy  eyes,  and  be- 
ing destined  to  become  a  beauty,"  I  said,  and  felt 
myself  blushing  up  to  the  ears. 

Aniuta  dropped  her  hand  which  held  the  comb,  and 
turned  her  face  toward  me,  with  a  picturesque  bend 
of  the  neck. 

"  And  you  believe  that  Fe6dor  Mikhailovitch  thinks 
you  handsome  —  handsomer  than  I  am  ? "  she  asked, 
gazing  at  me  with  a  sly  and  mysterious  look. 

This  cunning  look,  those  gleaming,  green  eyes,  and 
the  disheveled  golden  hair,  made  a  perfect  water- 
nymph  of  her.  Alongside  her,  in  the  big,  full-length 
mirror,  which  stood  exactly  opposite  her  bed,  I  beheld 
my  own  small,  swarthy  face,  and  could  make  the  com- 
parison between  us.  I  cannot  say  that  that  compari- 
son was  especially  agreeable  to  me,  but  my  sister's 
cold,  self-confident  tone  vexed  me,  and  I  would  not 
yield. 

"  Tastes  differ ! "  I  said,  angrily. 

"  Yes ;  some  people  do  have  strange  tastes ! "  re- 
marked Aniuta,  calmly,  and  went  on  brushing  her 
hair. 

When  the  candle  was  extinguished,  I  lay  with  my 
face  buried  in  the  pillow,  and  continued  my  reflec- 
tions on  the  same  subject. 

"  But  perhaps  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  has  such  a  taste 


140  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

that  I  please  him  more  than  my  sister  does,"  occurred 
to  me,  and  I  began  to  pray  mentally :  "  Lord  God,  let 
every  one,  let  the  whole  world,  go  into  raptures  over 
Aniuta,  only  make  me  seem  pretty  to  Feodor  Mik- 
hailovitch ! " 

But  my  illusions  on  this  point  were  destined  to  a 
speedy  and  cruel  destruction. 

Among  the  accomplishments  which  Dostoe vsky  en- 
couraged was  music.  Up  to  that  time  I  had  learned 
to  play  on  the  piano  as  the  majority  of  little  girls 
learn,  without  feeling  any  particular  liking  or  any 
particular  hatred  for  it.  My  ear  was  only  moder- 
ately good ;  but  as,  from  the  age  of  five  years,  I  had 
been  made  to  play  scales  and  exercises  for  an  hour 
and  a  half  every  day,  a  certain  amount  of  execution 
had  been  developed  in  me  now,  at  the  age  of  thirteen 
—  a  tolerable  touch,  and  a  faculty  of  reading  music  at 
sight  very  readily. 

It  happened  that  once,  at  the  very  beginning  of  our 
acquaintance,  I  had  played  for  Dostoevsky  a  piece 
in  which  I  was  remarkably  successful — variations  on 
the  themes  of  Russian  songs.  Fe6dor  Mikhailovitch 
was  not  a  musician.  He  belonged  to  that  class  of 
people  whose  enjoyment  of  music  depends  on  purely 
subjective  conditions  —  on  their  mood  at  a  given  mo- 
ment. Sometimes  the  most  beautiful  and  artistically 
executed  music  only  provokes  a  yawn  in  them;  on 
other  occasions,  a  hand-organ  whining  in  the  court- 
yard moves  them  to  tears. 

It  chanced  that,  on  the  occasion  when  I  played, 
Fe6dor  Mikhailovitch  was  in  just  one  of  those  sensi- 
tive, emotional  states  of  mind,  for  he  went  into  ecsta- 
sies over  my  playing,  and  allowing  his  feelings  to  run 
away  with  him,  as  usual,  he  began  to  lavish  on  me 
the  most  exaggerated  praises — I  had  talent  and  feel- 
ing, and  God  knows  what  all ! 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  141 

Of  course,  from  that  day  forth  I  became  passion- 
ately fond  of  music.  I  begged  my  mother  to  get  me 
a  good  teacher,  and  during  the  whole  of  our  stay  in 
Petersburg,  I  spent  every  leisure  moment  at  the 
piano,  so  that  in  the  course  of  three  months  I  really 
did  make  a  great  deal  of  progress. 

Now  I  prepared  a  surprise  for  Dostoevsky.  One 
day  he  happened  to  say  that  of  all  musical  composi- 
tions he  loved  most  of  all  Beethoven's  "  Sonata  Pathe- 
tique,"  and  that  this  sonata  always  overwhelmed  him 
with  a  whole  world  of  forgotten  sensations.  Although 
the  sonata  was  considerably  more  difficult  than  any 
of  the  pieces  which  I  had  hitherto  played,  I  deter- 
mined to  learn  it  at  any  cost ;  and  really,  by  expend- 
ing a  vast  amount  of  labor  on  it,  I  got  to  the  point 
where  I  could  play  it  fairly  well.  All  that  I  now 
waited  for  was  a  convenient  opportunity  when  I 
might  rejoice  Dostoevsky.  This  opportunity  soon 
presented  itself. 

Only  five  or  six  days  remained  before  our  depar- 
ture. Mama  and  my  aunts  were  invited  to  a  grand 
dinner  at  the  Swedish  Embassy,  the  ambassador  be- 
ing an  old  friend  of  our  family.  Aniuta,  who  had 
already  tired  of  balls  and  dinners,  excused  herself  on 
the  plea  of  a  headache.  We  remained  alone  in  the 
house.  That  evening  Dostoevsky  came  to  us. 

Our  approaching  departure,  the  consciousness  that 
none  of  the  elders  was  at  home,  and  that  such  an 
evening  would  not  soon  come  again,  put  us  in  an 
agreeably  excited  frame  of  mind.  Feodor  Mikhailo- 
vitch,  also,  was  in  rather  a  strange,  nervous  mood  — 
not  irritable,  as  had  often  been  the  case  with  him  of 
late,  but,  on  the  contrary,  gentle,  amiable. 

This  was  a  capital  moment  to  play  his  favorite  so- 
nata to  him.  I  had  rejoiced  in  advance  at  the  thought 
of  the  pleasure  which  it  would  cause  him. 


142  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

I  began  to  play.  The  difficulty  of  the  piece,  the  ne- 
cessity of  looking  well  at  every  note,  the  fear  of  mak- 
ing mistakes,  soon  absorbed  all  my  attention  to  such 
a  degree  that  I  was  entirely  taken  out  of  my  present 
surroundings,  and  did  not  observe  what  was  going  on 
around  me.  I  finished  with  a  self-satisfied  conscious- 
ness that  I  had  played  well.  I  felt  an  agreeable 
weariness  in  my  hands.  Still  quite  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  music,  and  of  that  pleasant  emotion  which 
always  lays  hold  of  one  after  every  bit  of  well-exe- 
cuted work,  I  awaited  the  well-merited  applause.  But 
silence  reigned  around  me.  I  glanced  around:  there 
was  no  one  in  the  room. 

My  heart  sank.  Still  suspecting  nothing  definite, 
but  with  a  dull  presentiment  of  something  evil,  I  en- 
tered the  adjoining  room.  That  was  empty  also!  At 
last,  on  raising  the  portiere  which  masked  the  door 
into  the  small,  corner  drawing-room,  I  beheld  Aniuta 
and  Fe6dor  Mikhailovitch  there. 

But  heavens ! — what  did  I  behold? 

They  were  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  little  divan. 
The  room  was  dimly  illuminated  by  a  lamp  with  a 
huge  shade.  The  shadow  fell  directly  on  my  sister, 
so  that  I  could  not  distinguish  her  face ;  but  Dostoev- 
sky's  face  I  saw  plainly;  it  was  pale  and  troubled. 
He  was  holding  Aniuta's  hand  in  his  hands,  and  bend- 
ing over  her.  He  was  talking  in  that  passionate, 
broken  whisper,  which  I  knew  and  loved  so  well. 

"  Anna  Vasilievna,  my  darling,  do  you  understand  ? 
I  loved  you  from  the  first  moment  that  I  beheld  you ; 
and  before  that  I  had  already  had  a  presentiment  of 
it  from  your  letters.  And  my  love  is  not  the  affec- 
tion of  friendship,  but  passion  —  the  passion  of  my 
whole  nature." 

Everything  swam  before  my  eyes.    A  sensation  of 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  143 

bitter  solitude,  of  deadly  insult,  suddenly  took  posses- 
sion of  me,  and  all  the  blood  in  my  body  seemed  to 
rush  first  to  my  heart,  and  then  to  pour,  in  a  burning 
flood,  to  my  head. 

I  dropped  the  portiere  and  fled  from  the  room.  I 
heard  the  crash  of  a  chair  which  I  had  accidentally 
overthrown. 

"  Is  that  you,  S6nya  ? "  cried  my  sister's  voice,  in  a 
tone  of  alarm.  But  I  made  no  reply,  and  did  not  halt 
until  I  had  reached  our  bedroom,  in  the  other  extrem- 
ity of  the  apartment,  at  the  end  of  a  long  corridor. 
"When  I  stopped  running,  I  immediately  began  to 
undress  in  great  haste,  without  lighting  the  candle, 
fairly  tearing  off  my  clothes,  and,  still  half-dressed, 
I  flung  myself  into  the  bed  and  hid  my  head  under 
the  coverlet.  At  that  moment  I  feared  but  one  thing 
—  that  my  sister  would  come  and  call  me  back  to  the 
drawing-room.  I  could  not  see  them  now. 

A  hitherto  unknown  sensation  of  bitterness,  insult, 
and  shame  filled  my  soul  to  overflowing,  and  espe- 
cially the  shame  and  insult.  Up  to  that  moment  I 
had  not,  even  in  my  most  secret  thoughts,  accounted 
to  myself  for  the  nature  of  my  feelings  toward  Dos- 
toevsky,  and  had  never  said  to  myself  that  I  was  in 
love  with  him. 

Although  I  was  only  thirteen  years  old,  I  had  al- 
ready heard  and  read  a  good  deal  about  love,  but  for 
some  reason  or  other  it  had  seemed  to  me  that  people 
fell  in  love  in  books,  but  not  in  real  life.  As  for  Dos- 
toevsky,  I  had  imagined  that  things  would  always  go 
on  all  our  lives  as  they  had  been  going  on  for  the  last 
three  months. 

"And  all  at  once,  at  one  blow,  all  is  ended!"  I 
kept  repeating  to  myself  in  my  despair;  and  only 
now,  when  all  seemed  to  me  irretrievably  lost,  did 


144  SCNYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

I  clearly  understand  how  happy  I  had  been  all  those 
days — those  evenings — to-day — a  few  moments  ago. 
But  now  —  good  God  —  now! 

Even  now  I  did  not  tell  myself  plainly  what  had 
changed,  what  had  come  to  an  end.  I  only  felt  that 
everything  had  lost  its  "bloom  for  me ;  that  life  was 
no  longer  worth  living ! 

"And  why  did  they  make  a  fool  of  me ;  why  did  they 
make  a  secret  of  it ;  why  did  they  dissemble  T'  I  re- 
proached them  with  unjust  wrath. 

"  "Well,  let  him  love  her,  let  him  marry  her,  what 
business  is  it  of  mine  ?  "  I  said  to  myself  several  sec- 
onds later;  but  my  tears  still  continued  to  flow,  and 
in  my  heart  I  felt  the  same  pain,  which  was  new  to  me. 

Time  passed.  Now  I  would  have  liked  to  have  Ani- 
uta  come  to  me.  I  was  angry  with  her  because  she  did 
not  come.  "I  might  be  dead  for  all  they  care! 
Heavens !  What  if  I  were  really  to  die ! "  And  sud- 
denly I  felt  inexpressibly  sorry  for  myself,  and  tears 
flowed  faster  than  ever. 

"  What  are  they  doing  now?  How  pleasant  it  must 
be  for  them,"  I  thought;  and  at  this  thought  there 
arose  a  fiendish  desire  to  run  to  them,  and  say  impu- 
dent things  to  them.  I  jumped  out  of  bed;  and,  with 
hands  quivering  with  excitement,  I  began  to  fumble 
for  the  matches,  in  order  to  find  the  candle,  and 
dress  myself.  But  I  could  not  find  the  matches.  As 
I  had  flung  my  clothes  all  over  the  room,  I  could  not 
dress  in  the  dark,  and  I  was  ashamed  to  summon  the 
maid.  Therefore  I  jumped  into  bed  again,  and  again 
began  to  sob,  with  a  feeling  of  helpless,  hopeless 
solitude. 

The  first  tears,  before  the  organism  is  accustomed 
to  suffering,  soon  exhaust  one.  My  paroxysms  of 
sharp  despair  passed  into  a  dull  torpor. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  145 

Not  a  single  sound  reached  our  bed-room  from  the 
drawing-room;  but  I  could  hear  the  servants  prepar- 
ing their  supper  in  the  kitchen  near  by.  They  were 
rattling  knives  and  plates;  the  maids  were  laughing 
and  chattering.  "Every  one  is  merry,  every  one  is 
happy,  only  I  alone — " 

At  last,  after  the  lapse  of  what  seemed  to  me  sev- 
eral eternities,  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell  resounded. 
Mama  and  my  aunts  had  returned  from  their  dinner- 
party. I  heard  the  hurried  steps  of  the  lackey,  as  he 
went  to  open  the  door;  then  loud,  cheerful  voices 
resounded,  as  they  always  did  when  our  people  re- 
turned from  any  entertainment. 

"  Probably  DostoeVsky  is  not  gone  yet.  Will  Ani- 
uta  tell  mama  what  has  happened  now,  or  to-morrow," 
I  said  to  myself.  And  then  I  distinguished  his  voice 
among  the  others.  He  was  taking  leave,  making 
haste  to  depart.  By  straining  my  ears  I  could  even 
hear  him  putting  on  his  overshoes.  Then  the  front 
door  slammed  again,  and  soon  afterward  Aniuta's 
resounding  footsteps  came  down  the  corridor.  She 
opened  the  door  of  the  bed-room,  and  a  bright  stream 
of  light  f eU  full  on  my  face. 

This  light  hurt  my  tear-swollen  eyes  by  its  intoler- 
able brightness,  and  the  feeling  of  physical  enmity 
to  my  sister  suddenly  mounted  to  my  throat. 

"  The  disgusting  thing,  she  is  rejoicing,"  I  said  bit- 
terly to  myself.  I  soon  turned  to  the  wall  to  pretend 
to  be  asleep.  Aniuta  deliberately  placed  the  candle 
on  the  commode,  and  then  approached  my  bed,  and 
stood  there  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

I  lay  there  motionless,  holding  my  breath. 

"  I  can  see  that  you  are  not  asleep,"  said  Aniuta  at 
last. 

I  still  remained  silent. 
10 


146  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to  sulk,  sulk  away.  It  will  be 
only  the  worse  for  you;  you  shall  not  know  any- 
thing," cried  my  sister  with  determination  at  last,  and 
began  to  undress  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

I  remember  that  I  had  a  wonderful  dream  that 
night.  This  was  strange  altogether.  Whenever  dur- 
ing my  life  a  great  grief  has  overwhelmed  me,  I 
have  always  afterward,  on  the  following  night,  had 
wonderfully  beautiful,  pleasant  dreams.  But  how 
painful  is  the  moment  of  awakening.  The  dreams 
are  not  yet  quite  dissipated;  the  whole  body,  ex- 
hausted with  the  tears  of  the  preceding  evening,  ex- 
periences an  agreeable  languor  after  a  few  hours  of 
vivifying  sleep,  a  physical  pleasure  in  the  restoration 
of  harmony.  Suddenly,  like  the  blow  of  a  hammer, 
the  memory  of  the  terrible,  irretrievable  catastrophe 
which  took  place  the  night  before  beats  upon  the 
brain,  and  the  soul  is  seized  with  the  consciousness 
that  it  must  begin  again  to  live  and  suffer. 

There  is  much  that  is  evil  in  life.  All  views  of  suf- 
fering are  repulsive.  Painful  is  the  paroxysm  of  the 
first  wild  despair,  when  the  whole  being  rebels,  and 
will  not  submit  itself,  when  it  cannot  as  yet  understand 
to  the  full  the  seriousness  of  the  loss.  Almost  worse 
are  the  long,  long  days  which  follow,  when  tears  are 
all  exhausted,  and  the  excitement  is  allayed,  and  the 
man  no  longer  beats  his  head  against  the  wall;  but 
only  recognizes  the  fact  that,  under  the  stress  of  grief 
which  has  overwhelmed  his  soul,  a  slow  process, — un- 
seen by  the  rest  of  the  world, — a  process  of  destruction 
and  of  weakness,  is  in  progress. 

All  this  is  very  bad  and  torturing ;  but  nevertheless 
the  first  moments  of  the  return  to  the  sad  reality  after 
a  brief  intermission  of  unconsciousness  are  almost  the 
hardest  of  all  to  bear. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  147 

All  the  next  day  I  passed  in  feverish  expectation : 
"What  will  happen?"  I  asked  no  questions  of  my 
sister.  I  continued  to  feel  toward  her,  though  in  a 
weaker  degree,  the  displeasure  which  I  had  felt  the 
night  before,  and  therefore  I  avoided  her  as  much  as 
possible. 

Perceiving  my  unhappiness  she  made  an  attempt 
to  approach  me,  and  to  caress  me;  but  I  roughly  re- 
pulsed her  in  a  sudden  fit  of  wrath.  Then  she,  too, 
got  angry,  and  left  me  to  my  own  gloomy  reflections. 

For  some  reason  or  other  I  confidently  expected 
that  Dostoevsky  would  come  to  us  that  day,  and  that 
then  something  terrible  would  happen;  but  he  did  not 
come.  "We  had  already  sat  down  to  dinner,  but  he 
had  not  made  his  appearance.  In  the  evening,  as  I 
knew,  we  were  to  go  to  a  concert. 

As  time  passed,  and  he  did  not  come,  I  felt  rather 
relieved;  and  a  sort  of  dim,  undefined  hope  even  be- 
gan to  penetrate  my  heart.  Suddenly  it  occurred 
to  me: 

"  My  sister  will  certainly  refuse  go  to  the  concert, 
and  will  remain  at  home;  and  Fe6dor  Mikhailovitch 
will  come  when  she  is  alone." 

My  heart  contracted  with  jealousy  at  this  thought. 
But  Aniuta  did  not  refuse  the  concert.  She  went 
with  us,  and  was  very  cheerful  and  talkative  all  the 
evening. 

On  our  return  from  the  concert,  when  we  had  gone 
to  bed,  and  Aniuta  was  preparing  to  blow  out  the  can- 
dle, I  could  hold  out  no  longer,  and  without  looking 
at  her,  I  asked : 

"  When  will  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  come  to  see  you  ? " 

Aniuta  smiled,  "  Why,  you  don't  want  to  know  any- 
thing about  me,  you  don't  want  to  speak  to  me,  you 
are  pleased  to  sulk." 


148  S6NYA  KOVALtiVSKY 

Her  voice  was  so  soft  and  kind  that  my  heart  sud- 
denly thawed,  and  she  appeared  to  me  dreadfully 
charming  once  more. 

"  Well,  how  can  he  help  loving  her  when  she  is  so 
splendid,  but  I  am  nasty  and  mean  ? "  thought  I,  with 
a  sudden  burst  of  self -depreciation.  I  crept  into  her 
bed,  nestled  up  to  her,  and  began  to  cry.  She  stroked 
my  head. 

"  Come,  stop  that,  you  little  goose.  Here  's  a  silly 
child,"  she  kept  repeating  in  a  caressing  way.  All  at 
once  she  could  control  herself  no  longer,  but  broke 
into  inextinguishable  laughter.  "  Why,  she  has  taken 
it  into  her  head  to  fall  in  love,  and  with  whom1? 
With  a  man  who  is  three  and  a  half  times  as  old  as 
she  is,"  she  said. 

These  words,  this  laughter,  suddenly  aroused  in  my 
soul  the  senseless  hope  which  utterly  possessed  me. 

"So  you  do  not  love  him1?"  I  asked  in  a  whisper, 
almost  stifling  with  emotion. 

Aniuta  meditated. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  she  began,  evidently  picking  her 
words,  and  finding  herself  in  difficulties,  "  of  course  I 
love  him,  and  I  have  a  frightful,  frightful  respect  for 
him.  He  is  so  kind,  so  clever,  such  a  genius ! " 

She  grew  very  animated,  but  my  heart  contracted 
again.  "  But  how  can  I  explain  it  to  you  ?  I  do  not 
love  him  as  he — well,  in  short,  I  don't  love  him  in  the 
way  to  marry  him ! "  she  said  with  sudden  decision. 

Heavens !  How  light  dawned  in  my  soul !  I  threw 
myself  on  my  sister  and  began  to  kiss  her  hands  and 
neck.  Aniuta  went  on  talking  for  a  long  time. 

"  You  see,  I  am  sometimes  astonished  myself  that  I 
cannot  love  him !  He  is  such  a  fine  man !  At  first  I 
thought  that  perhaps  I  might  come  to  love  him  ;  but 
he  does  not  need  such  a  wife  as  I,  not  in  the  least. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  149 

His  wife  ought  to  devote  herself  entirely,  entirely  to 
him ;  give  up  all  her  life  to  him,  think  only  of  him. 
And  I  cannot  do  that ;  I  want  to  live  myself.  More- 
over, he  is  so  nervous  and  exacting.  He  seems  to  be 
constantly  grasping  me  —  sucking  me  into  himself. 
I  never  was  myself  with  him." 

Aniuta  said  all  this  as  if  addressing  me,  but,  in  re- 
ality, in  order  to  explain  matters  to  herself.  I  pre- 
tended to  understand  and  to  sympathize,  but  in  my 
innermost  heart  I  was  thinking:  " Heavens!  What 
happiness  it  must  be  to  be  always  with  him,  and  to 
submit  one's  self  wholly  to  him !  How  can  my  sister 
repulse  such  happiness  ?  " 

At  any  rate,  when  I  fell  asleep  that  night  I  was  far 
from  being  so  unhappy  as  I  had  been  the  night  before. 

The  day  appointed  for  our  departure  was  now  close 
at  hand.  Feodor  Mikhailovitch  came  to  see  us  once 
more  to  bid  us  farewell.  He  did  not  remain  long,  but 
Aniuta  bore  herself  in  a  simple,  friendly  manner,  and 
they  promised  to  write  to  each  other.  His  farewell 
to  me  was  very  tender.  He  even  kissed  me  at  part- 
ing, but  assuredly  he  was  very  far  from  suspecting 
the  nature  of  my  feelings  for  him,  or  the  suffering 
which  he  had  caused  me. 

Six  months  later  my  sister  received  from  Feodor 
Mikhailovitch  a  letter,  in  which  he  informed  her  that 
he  had  met  a  wonderful  young  girl,  with  whom  he 
had  fallen  in  love,  and  who  had  consented  to  become 
his  wife.  This  young  girl  was  Anna  Grigorevna,  his 
second  wife.  "  If  any  one  had  foretold  this  six  months 
ago,  I  swear  by  my  honor  that  I  would  not  have  be- 
lieved it ! "  ingenuously  remarked  Dostoevsky,  at  the 
end  of  his  letter. 

My  heart-wound  also  healed  rapidly.     During  the 

few  days  which  remained  of  our  stay  in  Petersburg, 
10* 


150  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

I  continually  felt  an  unwonted  burden  on  my  heart, 
and  went  about  more  sadly  and  meekly  than  usual. 
But  the  homeward  journey  erased  from  my  soul  the 
last  traces  of  the  tempest  through  which  I  had  re- 
cently passed. 

We  took  our  departure  in  April.  In  Petersburg 
the  weather  was  still  cold  and  disagreeable;  but  in 
Vitebsk  real  spring  greeted  us,  having  entered  quite 
unexpectedly,  in  a  space  of  two  days,  into  all  its 
rights.  All  the  brooks  and  streamlets  had  over- 
flowed their  banks  and  flooded  the  adjacent  land, 
forming  perfect  seas.  The  earth  had  thawed;  the 
mud  was  indescribable. 

The  traveling  on  the  highway  was  still  tolerably 
good,  but  when  we  came  to  our  district  road  we  were 
forced  to  leave  our  traveling  carriage  at  the  post- 
house  and  hire  two  wretched  tarantasses.  Mama  and 
the  coachman  groaned  and  worried  —  how  were  we 
ever  to  get  home  1  Mama's  chief  fear  was  that  father 
would  scold  her  for  having  stayed  so  long  in  Peters- 
burg. However,  in  spite  of  all  the  groaning  and  sigh- 
ing, we  had  a  capital  journey. 

I  remember  how  we  passed  through  the  pine  forest 
late  at  night.  Neither  I  nor  my  sister  was  asleep. 
"We  sat  in  silence,  reviewing  all  the  various  impres- 
sions of  the  past  three  mouths,  and  eagerly  inhaling 
the  spicy  odor  of  spring,  with  which  the  air  was  satu- 
rated. Both  our  hearts  were  aching  with  a  sort  of 
oppressive  expectation. 

Little  by  little  complete  darkness  descended.  We 
were  proceeding  at  a  foot-pace,  on  account  of  the  bad 
road.  The  postilion  seemed  to  be  asleep  on  his  box, 
and  was  not  shouting  at  his  horses ;  nothing  was  to 
be  heard  but  the  splashing  of  the  horses'  hoofs  in  the 
mud,  and  the  faint,  intermittent  jingling  of  the  bells. 


KECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD  151 

The  pine  forest  stretched  out  on  both  sides  of  the 
road,  dark,  mysterious,  impenetrable.  All  at  once, 
as  we  entered  a  glade,  the  moon  seemed  to  swim  out 
from  behind  the  forest,  and  flooded  us  with  silvery 
light  so  brilliant  and  unexpected  that  we  were  even 
startled. 

After  my  explanation  with  my  sister  in  Petersburg, 
we  had  not  touched  upon  any  private  questions,  and 
a  sort  of  constraint  still  existed  between  us  —  some 
new  sensation  had  taken  possession  of  us.  But  at 
that  moment,  as  if  by  mutual  agreement,  we  pressed 
close  to  each  other,  exchanged  an  embrace,  and  felt 
that  there  was  no  longer  any  foreign  element  inter- 
posed between  us,  and  that  we  were  near  to  each 
other,  as  in  the  past.  A  feeling  of  reckless,  un- 
bounded joy  in  life  overpowered  us  both.  Hea- 
vens !  how  that  life  which  lay  before  us  attracted  us, 
and  beckoned  us  on ;  and  how  illimitable,  how  myste- 
rious, and  how  beautiful,  it  seemed  to  us  that  night ! 


S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

A  BIOGKAPHY 

BY  ANNA  CAELOTTA  LEFFLER 

DUCHESS  OF  CAJANELLO 

TRANSLATED   FROM  THE  SWEDISH 
BY  A.  M.  CLIVE  BATLEY 

NOTE 

EXTRACTS  FROM  ELLEN  KEY'S  BIOGRAPHY 
OF    THE    DUCHESS    OF    CAJANELLO 

TRANSLATED   BY  I.  F.  HAPGOOD 

BIOGKAPHICAL  NOTE 
BY   LILY  WOLFFSOHN 


SONYA    KOYALEYSKY 

INTRODUCTION 

IMMEDIATELY  on  receiving  the  news  of  S6nya 
Kovalevsky's  unexpected  and  sudden  death,  I  felt 
that  it  was  a  duty  incumbent  upon  me  to  continue,  in 
one  form  or  another,  the  reminiscences  of  her  early 
life  which  had  been  published  in  Swedish  under  the 
title  of  "  The  Sisters  Raevsky." 

There  were  many  reasons  which  made  me  consider 
this  my  special  duty;  but  the  chief  one  was  the  fact 
that  Sonya  had  always  entertained  a  feeling  that  she 
would  die  young,  and  that  I  should  outlive  her  5  and 
over  and  over  again  she  made  me  promise  to  write 
her  biography. 

Introspective  and  self-analysing  as  she  was  to  an 
extraordinary  degree,  she  was  accustomed  to  dissect 
minutely  her  own  actions,  thoughts,  and  feelings; 
both  for  her  own  benefit  and,  during  the  three  or  four 
years  in  which  we  were  together  almost  daily,  for  mine 
also.  She  always  tried  to  classify  her  ever-changing 
moods  and  disposition  according  to  a  given  psycho- 
logical system.  This  habit  of  self-criticism  was  so 
strong  that  she  frequently  recognized  the  truth.  But 
however  keen,  and  at  times  unmerciful,  her  self -analy- 
sis might  be,  there  was  blent  with  it  the  natural  impulse 
to  self -idealization.  She  saw  herself  as  she  wished  to 
be  seen ;  hence  the  picture  she  drew  of  herself  was  in 

155 


156  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

many  details  unlike  what  others  found  her  to  be. 
Sometimes  she  judged  herself  more  harshly,  some- 
times more  leniently,  than  others  judged  her. 

Had  she,  as  she  intended,  continued  the  reminis- 
cences of  her  childhood  by  writing  the  whole  history 
of  her  life,  the  picture  would  have  been  the  one  which 
she  outlined  and  filled  in  for  me  in  our  many  long, 
psychological  conversations. 

Unfortunately  she  cannot  complete  this  work;  which 
would  undoubtedly  have  been  the  most  remarkable 
autobiography  in  the  world  of  literature. 

It  falls,  then,  to  my  lot  to  draw,  in  faint  outline,  the 
picture  of  Sonya's  life,  feeling  that,  limned  by  her  own 
hand,  it  would  have  been  deeply  and  intensely  imbued 
with  her  own  personality. 

From  the  first  I  knew  that  the  only  way  in  which 
I  could  succeed  in  my  task  would  be  to  write,  so  to 
speak,  under  her  suggestion.  I  felt  I  must  endeavor 
to  identify  myself  with  her  as  I  used  to  do  while  she 
still  lived.  I  must  strive  to  be  again  what  she  so  often 
called  me,  her  "second  I."  I  must  depict  her,  as  far 
as  possible,  in  the  light  in  which  she  showed  herself 
to  me.  Meanwhile  I  could  not  decide  to  publish  the 
reminiscences  which  I  began  to  write  down  shortly 
after  S6nya's  death,  and  I  allowed  a  year  to  pass 
without  doing  so.  During  that  year  I  conversed  with 
many  of  her  friends,  both  of  former  and  of  recent 
date.  I  corresponded  with  those  who  were  absent  in 
foreign  lands  whenever  I  could  find  them;  and  thus 
sought  to  supplement  my  own  memory  in  all  things 
concerning  Sonya's  external  life.  I  have  quoted  from 
my  correspondence  all  that  seemed  important  as  cast- 
ing light  upon  her  character,  but  always  of  course 
from  the  point  of  view  I  have  indicated — that  of  eluci- 
dating her  own  interpretation  of  herself. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  157 

From  an  objective  point  of  view  the  life-history  I 
have  sought  to  depict  of  my  friend  may  perhaps  be 
considered  not  real.  But  is  the  objective  standpoint 
necessarily  the  true  one  when  we  deal  with  the  inter- 
pretation of  character? 

Many  may  contest  the  justice  of  my  estimate  and 
interpretation;  many  may  judge  Sonya's  actions  and 
feelings  in  quite  another  light,  but  this  in  no  way 
concerns  me  from  my  point  of  view. 

The  data  which  I  have  submitted  are  as  accurate  as 
I  can  make  them.  It  is  only  when  such  data  seem  to 
have  been  slightly  distorted  by  imagination  that  I 
have  failed  to  adhere  closely  to  Sonya's  guidance. 

When  I  met  Henrik  Ibsen  last  summer,  and  told  him 
that  I  was  writing  a  memoir  of  Sony  a  Kovalevsky,  he 
exclaimed : 

"  Is  it  her  biography  in  the  ordinary  meaning  of  the 
word  which  you  intend  to  write,  or  is  it  not  rather  a 
poem  about  her  ? " 

•'  Yes,"  I  answered;  "that  is  to  say,  it  will  be  her 
own  poem  about  herself  as  revealed  to  me." 

"  That  is  all  right,"  he  replied.  "  You  must  treat 
the  subject  romantically." 

This  remark  strengthened  and  cheered  me,  encou- 
raging me  to  follow  out  the  plan  which  had  presented 
itself  to  me. 

Let  others  who  can  describe  S6nya  objectively.  I 
cannot  attempt  anything  but  a  subjective  delineation 
of  my  own  subjective  conception  of  her,  derived  from 
the  vividly  subjective  interpretation  which  she  herself 
gave  me. 

ANNA  CARLOTTA  LEFFLER, 

Duchess  of  Cajanello. 

NAPLES. 


GIRLHOOD'S  DREAMS — NIHILISTIC  MARRIAGE1 

S6NYA  was  about  seventeen  years  of  age  when  her 
parents  took  her  with  them  to  pass  a  winter  in 
Petersburg.  Just  at  that  time,  in  the  year  1867,  a 
strong  movement  was  making  itself  felt  among  the 
thinking  portion  of  the  rising  generation  in  Russia. 

This  movement  especially  affected  the  young  girls 
of  Russia,  and  may  be  described  as  an  ardent  desire 
for  the  freedom  and  progress  of  their  fatherland,  and 
the  raising  of  its  intellectual  standard. 

It  was  not  a  nihilistic,  scarcely  a  political,  movement. 
It  was  an  eager  striving  after  knowledge  and  mental 
development ;  and  it  had  spread  so  far  and  wide  that 
at  this  moment  hundreds  of  young  girls  belonging  to 
the  best  families  abandoned  then*  homes  and  betook 
themselves  to  foreign  universities  in  order  to  study 
science. 

But  as  parents,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  opposed 
such  proceedings,  their  daughters  had  recourse  to 
very  strange  tactics,  characteristic  of  the  times,  to 
effect  their  purpose.  They  went  through  the  form  of 
marriage  with  young  men  devoted  to  the  same  ideas 
which  they  held  sacred,  and  in  this  manner,  as  married 
women,  they  escaped  from  parental  authority,  and 
were  enabled  to  go  abroad  at  the  first  opportunity. 

1  Appendix  A. 
159 


160  S6NYA  KOVALtiVSKY 

Many  of  the  Russian  women-students  in  Zurich, 
who  were  afterward  recalled  by  an  imperial  ukase 
(being  suspected  of  nihilistic  tendencies,  although  they 
only  thought  of  studying  in  peace),  had  entered  into 
this  sort  of  fictitious  marriage  with  men  who  had  ac- 
companied them  to  the  universities  and  by  mutual 
agreement  had  then  left  them  free  to  pursue  their 
studies. 

This  kind  of  union,  with  its  abstract  and  ulterior 
motive,  was  very  popular  at  the  time  in  the  circles  of 
Petersburg  to  which  S6nya  and  her  sister  belonged. 
Indeed,  it  seemed  to  Sonya,  and  to  most  of  her  friends, 
a  far  higher  conception  of  the  marriage  state  than  the 
low  and  commonplace  idea  of  a  union  between  two 
persons  for  the  mere  satisfaction  of  their  passions,  or 
the  purely  selfish  happiness  of  what  is  generally  termed 
a  "  love-match." 

According  to  the  ideal  which  these  young  people 
cherished,  personal  happiness  was  altogether  a  subor- 
dinate consideration.  The  sacrifice  of  self  for  unselfish 
purposes  was  their  noble  intention,  and  the  develop- 
ment of  intellect  was  the  means  by  which  these  young 
people  hoped  to  infuse  new  vigor  into  the  fatherland 
they  loved  so  dearly,  and  to  assist  its  struggle  from 
darkness  and  oppression  into  light  and  freedom. 

This  was  the  passionate  longing  which  filled  the 
hearts  of  the  daughters  of  old  aristocratic  families, 
hitherto  educated  solely  to  be  women  of  the  world, 
future  wives  and  mothers. 

No  wonder  that  their  parents  were  unable  to  under- 
stand them,  and  were  hostile  to  this  sudden  bursting 
into  flame  of  the  independence  and  determined  rebel- 
lion which  had  long  secretly  smoldered,  cherished  by 
mysterious  meetings  and  confabulations  among  the 
youth  of  Russia.  "  Oh,  what  a  happy  time  it  was !  " 


A  BIOGRAPHY  161 

Sonya  would  often  exclaim  when  talking  of  this  period 
of  her  life.  "  We  were  so  enthusiastic  about  the  new 
ideas ;  so  sure  that  the  present  social  state  could  not 
continue  long.  We  pictured  to  ourselves  the  glorious 
period  of  liberty  and  universal  enlightenment  of  which 
we  dreamed,  and  in  which  we  firmly  believed.  Besides 
this,  we  had  the  sense  of  true  union  and  cooperation. 
When  three  or  four  of  us  met  in  a  drawing-room  among 
older  people, — where  we  had  no  right  to  advance  our 
opinions, — a  tone,  a  glance,  even  a  sigh,  were  sufficient 
to  show  one  another  that  we  were  one  in  thought  and 
sympathy.  And  when  we  discovered  this,  how  great 
was  the  inward  delight  at  realizing  that  close  to  us  was 
some  young  man  or  woman,  whom  we  had  never  seen 
before,  and  with  whom  we  had  apparently  only  ex- 
changed some  commonplace  remark,  yet  whom  we 
found  to  be  devoted  to  the  same  ideas  and  hopes, 
ready  for  self-sacrifice  in  the  same  cause!" 

At  that  time  no  one  noticed  little  Sonya  in  the  circle 
which  gradually  gathered  around  her  sister  Aniuta, 
who  was  six  years  her  senior,  and  the  center  of  a  group 
of  friends.  S6nya  was  still  a  child  in  outward  appear- 
ance, and  it  was  only  through  Aniuta's  affection  for 
her  shy  little  sister  with  "  the  green-gooseberry  eyes  " 
that  the  girl  was  allowed  to  be  present.  How  brightly 
those  eyes  sparkled  at  every  warm  and  enthusiastic 
word  which  fell  from  the  older  members  of  the  circle, 
though  Sonya  kept  herself  in  the  shadow  of  her  more 
brilliant  sister ! 

Sonya  admired  this  sister  above  all  things,  and  be- 
lieved her  to  be  her  superior  in  beauty,  charm,  talent, 
and  intelligence.  But  in  her  admiration  lay  a  certain 
amount  of  jealousy ;  the  jealousy  which  strives  to  em- 
ulate its  object,  not  that  which  belittles  and  disparages 
it.  This  jealousy,  of  which  Sonya  speaks  in  her  rem- 


162  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

iniscences,  was  characteristic  of  her  throughout  her 
life.  She  was  apt  to  overestimate  the  qualities  she 
longed  to  possess,  and  the  lack  of  which  she  deplored. 
She  was  also  greatly  impressed  by  beauty  and  charm 
of  manner.  These  qualities  her  sister  appears  to  have 
possessed  in  a  far  greater  degree  than  herself,  and  her 
day-dream  was  to  surpass  that  sister  in  other  matters. 
From  her  childhood,  Sonya  had  always  been  praised 
for  her  intelligence.  Her  natural  love  of  study,  and 
her  thirst  for  knowledge,  were  now  seconded  by  her 
ambition,  and  by  the  encouragement  she  received  from 
her  master  in  mathematics.  She  showed  such  ex- 
traordinary keenness  and  quickness  of  perception,  and 
such  fertility  of  origination,  that  her  scientific  gifts 
were  not  to  be  mistaken.  Her  father  had  only  per- 
mitted this  unusual  and  "  unfeminine  "  study  through 
the  influence  of  one  of  his  oldest  friends  (himself 
somewhat  given  to  mathematics),  who  had  discovered 
Sonya's  uncommon  aptitude  for  this  science.  But  at 
the  first  suspicion  that  his  daughter  intended  to  take 
up  the  study  seriously,  the  father  withdrew  in  concern. 
Her  first  shy  hints  that  she  wished  to  go  to  a  foreign 
university  were  as  unwelcome  as  had  been,  a  few  years 
previously,  the  discovery  of  Aniuta's  authorship.  It 
was  regarded  as  a  reprehensible  tendency  toward  im- 
propriety. Young  girls  of  good  family  who  had  already 
carried  out  similar  plans  were  simply  regarded  as  mere 
adventuresses,  who  had  brought  shame  and  sorrow 
upon  their  parents.  Thus  in  the  homes  of  the  aris- 
tocracy there  existed  two  opposing  currents :  first,  the 
hidden,  secret,  and  stifled,  but  rebellious  and  intense 
striving,  which  could  not  be  resisted,  and  which  found 
its  own  outlet  like  a  natural  force ;  and,  secondly,  the 
open  and  genuine  conviction,  on  the  parents'  side,  of 
their  right  to  stem  and  hold  in  check,  to  regulate 


A  BIOGEAPHY  163 

and  to  discipline,  this  same  unknown  and  mysterious 
natural  force. 

Aniuta  and  one  of  her  friends,  who  was  also  full 
of  the  desire  to  study  abroad,  and  likewise  prevented 
from  doing  so  by  her  parents,  now  came  to  a  definite 
determination.  Either  of  them — it  mattered  little 
which — was  to  make  one  of  these  ideal  and  platonic 
marriages  before  alluded  to.  They  hoped  that  this 
arrangement  would  give  both  of  them  their  liberty. 
They  thought,  if  one  of  them  were  married,  the  other 
would  obtain  permission  from  her  parents  to  accom- 
pany her  friend  abroad.  Such  a  journey  would  no 
longer  appear  in  an  objectionable  light,  but  might  be 
regarded  as  a  mere  pleasure-trip. 

Sonya  was  to  accompany  her  sister.  She  was  so 
entirely  Aniuta's  shadow  that  it  was  utterly  impossible 
to  imagine  the  one  without  the  other.  The  plan  once 
made,  the  first  step  was  to  find  the  right  man  to  help 
them  to  carry  it  out. 

Aniuta  and  her  friend  Inez  reviewed  their  circle  of 
acquaintance,  and  their  choice  fell  on  a  young  professor 
at  the  University,  whom  they  knew  only  slightly,  but  of 
whose  honesty  and  devotion  to  the  common  cause  they 
were  convinced.  So,  one  fine  day,  the  three  girls — 
Sonya,  as  usual,  bringing  up  the  rear — went  to  see 
the  professor  in  his  own  house.  He  was  seated  at  his 
writing-table  when  the  servant  introduced  the  three 
young  ladies,  whose  presence  there  somewhat  aston- 
ished him,  for  they  did  not  belong  to  the  circle  of  his 
more  intimate  lady-friends.  He  rose  politely  and  asked 
them  to  be  seated. 

Down  they  all  three  sat  in  a  row  on  the  sofa,  and  a 
moment's  awkward  pause  followed. 

The  professor  sat  in  his  rocking-chair  opposite  them, 
and  looked  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other.  At  the 


164  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

fair  Aniuta,  tall,  slim,  with  a  peculiar  charm  in  her  svelte 
and  graceful  movements;  whose  large  and  lustrous 
eyes,  dark  and  blue,  were  fixed  upon  him  fearlessly, 
and  yet  with  a  certain  indecision.  At  the  dark  Inez, 
stout  and  clumsy,  with  her  eagle  nose,  and  an  intrepid 
look  in  her  prominent  eyes.  At  the  fragile  Sonya,  with 
her  abundant  curls,  her  pure,  correct  features,  childish, 
innocent  forehead,  and  strange  eyes,  full  of  passionate 
inquiry,  of  wonder,  and  of  attention. 

Aniuta  at  last  commenced  the  conversation  as  they 
had  intended.  Without  the  least  sign  of  timidity  she 
asked  the  professor  if  he  were  willing  to  "  free  "  them 
by  going  through  the  marriage  ceremony  with  one  of 
them,  accompanying  them  to  a  university  either  in 
Germany  or  Switzerland,  and  there  leaving  them.  In 
another  country,  or  under  other  circumstances,  a  young 
man  could  hardly  listen  to  such  a  proposal  from  a  hand- 
some girl  without,  in  his  answer,  showing  some  foolish 
gallantry,  or  expressing  a  touch  of  irony ;  but  in  this 
case  the  man  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  Aniuta  had 
not  been  mistaken  in  her  choice.  The  professor  an- 
swered, quite  seriously  and  coldly,  that  such  a  pro- 
posal he  had  not  the  least  desire  to  accept.  And  the 
girls?  One  would  suppose  that  they  must  have  felt 
terribly  humiliated  by  this  flat  refusal.  Such,  however, 
was  not  the  case.  Feminine  vanity  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  matter.  The  question  of  personally  pleasing 
the  young  man  had  never  entered  into  their  project. 
They  received  his  refusal  as  coolly  as  a  young  man 
might  do  whose  friend  had  not  accepted  an  invitation 
to  travel  abroad  with  him.  So  they  all  went  off,  shak- 
ing hands  with  the  professor  at  the  door,  and  did  not 
meet  with  him  again  for  many  years.  They  felt  sure 
he  would  not  abuse  the  confidence  they  had  placed  in 
him,  for  he  belonged  to  the  secret  brotherhood  which, 


A  BIOGRAPHY  165 

though  it  was  not  a  society  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
word,  still  united  in  one  indissoluble  bond  the  hearts  of 
all  those  who  were  devoted  to  the  same  cause.  Some 
fifteen  years  later,  when  Madame  Kovalevsky  was  at 
the  height  of  her  celebrity,  she  met  the  professor 
in  Petersburg  society,  and  jested  with  him  about  the 
rejected  offer  of  marriage. 

Just  at  this  time  one  of  Aniuta's  friends  committed 
the  crime  of  a  love-marriage.  How  they  despised  her, 
and  bewailed  her  lot!  Sonya's  heart  swelled  with 
anger  at  such  a  mean  failure  of  her  ideal.  Even  the 
newly  married  couple  were  as  shamefaced  before  their 
young  friends  as  though  they  had  committed  a  verita- 
ble crime.  They  never  dared  to  talk  to  them  about 
their  wedded  bliss,  and  the  wife  even  forbade  her 
husband  to  show  the  least  sign  of  affection  in  their 
presence. 

Meanwhile  an  unexpected  circumstance  occurred  in 
Sonya's  life.  Aniuta  and  Inez,  who  still  kept  to  their 
original  plan,  not  allowing  themselves  to  be  defeated 
by  their  first  rebuff,  had  chosen  another  young  man 
as  their  "liberator."  He  was  only  a  student,  but 
an  exceptionally  clever  one,  who  also  desired  to  go  to 
Germany  to  complete  his  studies.  He  was  of  good 
family,  and  generally  considered  to  be  a  "  rising  man." 
They  therefore  hoped  that,  if  it  came  to  pass,  neither 
Inez's  nor  Aniuta's  parents  would  have  any  serious  ob- 
jection to  urge  against  the  marriage.  This  time  the 
proposal  was  made  in  a  less  formal  manner.  Once, 
when  they  met,  as  they  often  did,  at  the  house  of  mu- 
tual friends,  Aniuta  took  the  opportunity  of  putting 
her  proposal  to  the  young  man  during  the  course  of 
conversation.  He  replied,  much  to  her  astonishment, 
that  he  quite  agreed  to  the  suggestion,  with,  however, 

a  slight  variation  in  the  program.     He  would  like  to 
11* 


166  S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

marry  Sonya.  This  declaration  caused  much  anxiety 
to  the  three  conspirators.  How  could  they  induce 
Sonya's  father  to  allow  her,  hardly  more  than  a  child, 
to  marry,  while  her  elder  sister,  already  twenty-three 
years  of  age,  remained  unmarried  ?  They  knew  that 
if  a  moderately  suitable  match  had  been  proposed  for 
the  latter,  her  father  would  not  have  been  obdurate. 
In  fact,  Aniuta  gave  him  much  anxiety  by  her  unac- 
countable and  imaginative  nature.  She  was,  moreover, 
of  an  age  at  which  she  ought  to  have  been  married. 
Certainly  the  student  Kovalevsky  was  young,  but  he 
had  before  him  a  promising  future,  and  no  doubt  he 
would  have  been  accepted  willingly  enough  for  the 
eldest  daughter. 

But  with  regard  to  Sonya  it  was  altogether  a  differ- 
ent matter. 

The  proposal  now  made  to  the  father  was  absolutely 
refused  without  appeal ;  and  a  return  to  the  country- 
place  of  the  family,  Palibino,  was  immediately  ar- 
ranged. 

The  girls  were  in  despair  at  returning  to  Palibino, 
for  this  meant  the  surrender  of  the  hopes  and  interests 
which  had  been  to  them  the  very  breath  of  life.  It  was 
a  return  to  a  prison,  but  without  the  charm  of  true 
martyrdom  in  a  great  cause.  Indeed,  a  real  imprison- 
ment would  have  been  easier  for  them  to  bear  than 
the  unpoetic  banishment  with  which  they  were  now 
threatened. 

The  timid  Sonya  took  a  bold  resolution.  The  tender 
young  girl,  who  could  not  bear  an  unkind  glance  or  a 
word  of  disapproval  from  those  she  loved,  at  this 
critical  moment  became  like  steel.  For  though  of  a 
delicate,  sympathetic,  and  affectionate  nature,  she  had 
within  her  a  vein  of  sternness  and  flint-like  inflexibility, 
which  came  to  the  fore  at  any  crisis.  She  who  could, 


A  BIOGRAPHY  167 

like  a  little  dog,  creep  up  to  and  nestle  in  the  arms 
of  any  one  who  smiled  kindly  upon  her,  could,  when 
roused  to  battle,  trample  every  feeling  underfoot,  and 
wound  in  cold  blood  those  on  whom,  a  moment  before, 
she  had  lavished  the  warmest  affection. 

This  arose  from  her  intensity  of  will.  For  her  will 
was  so  strong  that  it  became  an  overmastering  force, 
even  when  it  had  to  do  with  a  purpose  entirely  un- 
connected with  feeling.  What  she  desired,  what  she 
wished,  she  desired  with  such  intensity  that  she  was 
almost  consumed  by  it.  Now  she  wanted  to  leave  her 
parents'  home,  and  continue  her  studies,  cost  what  it 
might. 

One  evening  there  was  to  be  a  family  gathering  at 
her  father's  house.  In  the  afternoon  her  mother  had 
gone  out  to  choose  flowers  for  her  table  and  new  music 
for  her  pianoforte. 

Her  father  was  at  his  club,  and  the  governess  was 
helping  the  maid  to  decorate  the  drawing-room  with 
plants. 

The  girls  were  alone  in  their  room,  and  their  pretty 
new  dresses  were  lying  ready  for  dinner.  They  were 
never  allowed  to  go  out  of  doors  without  being  accom- 
panied by  the  footman  or  the  governess.  But  Sonya 
seized  upon  this  moment,  when  every  one  was  occupied, 
to  slip  out  of  the  house.  Aniuta,  who  was  in  the  con- 
spiracy, accompanied  Sonya  downstairs,  and  stood  at 
the  door  until  she  was  out  of  sight.  She  then  ran  back 
to  her  room  with  a  beating  heart,  and  began  to  put  on 
her  light-blue  dress. 

It  was  already  twilight,  and  the  first  gas-lamps  were 
just  being  lighted.  Sonya  had  drawn  down  her  veil 
and  pulled  her  Russian  hood  well  over  her  face.  She 
hesitatingly  went  down  the  broad  empty  street,  which 
she  had  never  before  traversed  alone.  Her  pulses  were 


168  S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

beating  high  with  the  excitement  which  always  accom- 
panies and  lends  such  a  charm  to  great  moments  in 
the  lives  of  romantic  people.  Sonya  felt  herself  the 
heroine  of  the  romance  now  opening — she,  the  little 
Sonya,  who  had  hitherto  been  nothing  but  her  sister's 
shadow ! 

But  the  romance  was  of  quite  a  different  kind  to 
the  love-tales  of  which  literature  is  full,  and  which  she 
herself  despised. 

For  this  was  no  lovers'  tryst  .to  which  Sonya's  light 
feet  were  speeding  so  rhythmically.  It  was  no  pas- 
sionate love  that  made  her  heart  beat,  as,  breathless 
with  fright,  she  sped  up  the  dark  flight  of  steps  of  a 
dilapidated  house  in  a  miserable  street.  She  rapped 
three  nervous  little  taps  on  a  certain  door,  which 
opened  so  quickly  that  it  was  clear  the  young  man 
who  presented  himself  had  been  on  the  watch  and  was 
expecting  her.  He  immediately  led  her  into  a  simple 
study,  where  books  were  piled  up  in  every  direction, 
and  where  a  sofa  had  been  evidently  emptied  of  them 
to  receive  her. 

The  young  man  was  not  quite  an  ideal  hero  of 
romance.  His  large  red  beard  and  too  prominent 
nose  gave  him,  at  first  sight,  an  ugly  aspect.  But, 
once  you  met  the  clear  glance  of  his  deep-blue  eyes,  you 
found  in  them  such  a  kindly,  intelligent,  and  honest 
expression  that  they  grew  most  attractive.  His  manner 
to  this  young  girl,  who  showed  such  strange  confidence 
in  him,  was  quite  that  of  an  elder  brother.  The  two 
young  people  sat  down  excitedly  on  the  sofa,  listening 
for  heavy  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  Sonya  started  up, 
turning  red  and  white,  each  time  she  thought  she 
heard  a  movement  in  the  corridor. 

Meanwhile  her  parents  had  returned  home,  but  only 
just  in  time — as  the  girls  had  well  calculated — to  dress 


A  BIOGRAPHY  169 

for  dinner  before  their  guests  arrived.  They  therefore 
did  not  notice  Sonya's  absence  until  all  the  guests  were 
assembled  in  the  dining-room  and  were  about  to  sit 
down  to  table. 

"Where  is  Sonya?"  they  both  asked  in  the  same 
breath,  turning  to  the  pale  Aniuta,  who  seemed  more 
self-conscious  than  ever,  with  her  defiant  glance  and 
nervous,  expectant  air. 

"  She  is  out,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  the  trem- 
bling of  which  she  could  not  conceal,  and  averting  her 
eyes  from  her  father. 

"  Gone  out  ?  What  does  she  mean  by  it  ?  And  with 
whom  ?  " 

"  Alone.  There  is  a  note  for  you  on  her  dressing- 
table." 

The  footman  was  sent  to  fetch  the  note,  and  the 
company  sat  down  to  dinner  amid  a  death-like  silence. 

Sonya  had  calculated  her  blow  better  than  she  per- 
haps knew.  And  it  was  more  cruel  than  she  could  have 
dreamed.  In  her  childish  defiance,  and  with  the  selfish- 
ness of  youth,  which  knows  neither  mercy  nor  consid- 
eration, understanding  so  little  the  pain  inflicted,  she 
had  wounded  her  father  in  his  most  tender  point.  In 
the  presence  of  so  many  relations  of  every  degree  the 
proud  man  was  forced  to  swallow  the  humiliation  of 
his  daughter's  wrong-doing. 

The  note  contained  only  these  words :  "  Father,  I  am 
with  Vladimir,  and  beg  you  will  no  longer  oppose  our 
marriage." 

General  Krukovsky  read  these  lines  in  silence.  He 
rose  immediately  from  the  table,  murmuring  an  excuse 
to  those  who  sat  near  him.  Ten  minutes  later  Sonya 
and  her  companion,  who  had  been  listening  more  and 
more  intently,  heard  the  expected  angry  steps.  The 
door,  which  had  not  been  locked,  sprang  open  without 


170  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

any  previous  knock,  and  General  Krukovsky  stood 
before  his  trembling  daughter. 

Just  before  the  close  of  the  dinner  the  General  and 
his  daughter,  accompanied  by  Vladimir  Kovalevsky, 
entered  the  dining-room. 

"  Allow  me,"  said  the  General,  in  an  agitated  voice, 
"  to  present  to  you  my  daughter  S6nya's  fianct." 


n 

IN  THE   UNIVERSITY 

IN  the  foregoing  words  Sonya  used  to  relate  to  me 
the  most  dramatic  incidents  of  her  peculiar  mar- 
riage. Her  parents  forgave  her,  and  shortly  after,  in 
October,  1868,  the  marriage  was  celebrated  at  Palibino. 
The  newly  wedded  couple  went  immediately  to  Peters- 
burg, where  Sonya  was  introduced  by  her  husband  to 
circles  interested  in  political  events ;  and  thus  one  of 
her  great  desires  was  fulfilled. 

A  lady  who  afterward  became  her  most  intimate 
friend  relates,  in  the  following  words,  the  impression 
which  Sonya  made  on  her  new  acquaintances : 

"  Among  all  the  women,  married  and  unmarried,  of 
this  circle  interested  in  politics — women  who  were 
worn  out  and  harassed  by  life — Sonya  Kovalevsky 
made  a  peculiar  impression.  Her  childish  face  pro- 
cured her  the  name  of  '  the  little  sparrow.'  She  was 
just  eighteen,  but  looked  much  younger.  Small,  slen- 
der, with  a  round  face  and  short  curly  chestnut  hair, 
she  had  very  mobile  features.  Her  eyes,  especially, 
were  exceedingly  expressive;  sometimes  bright  and 
dancing,  sometimes  dreamy  and  full  of  melancholy. 
Her  whole  expression  was  a  mixture  of  childish  inno- 
cence and  deep  thought.  She  attracted  every  one  by 
the  unconscious  charm  which  was  her  principal  char- 
acteristic at  this  period  of  her  life.  Old  and  young, 
men  and  women,  all  were  fascinated  by  her.  Natural 
in  manner,  she  never  seemed  to  notice  the  homage 


172  S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

lavished  upon  her.  She  took  no  pains  about  her  per- 
sonal appearance  or  dress,  the  latter  being  as  simple  as 
possible,  even  showing  a  tendency  to  slovenliness — a 
trait  which  remained  with  her  to  the  last." 

In  connection  with  this  peculiarity  the  same  friend 
relates  the  following  characteristic  little  incident : 

"  I  remember,  shortly  after  our  acquaintance  began, 
how  once,  when  I  was  talking  enthusiastically  to  Sonya 
about  something  which  interested  us  both, — in  those 
days  we  never  could  talk  otherwise  than  enthusias- 
tically,— she  occupied  herself  the  whole  time  in  pulling 
off  the  trimming  of  her  left  sleeve,  which  had  become 
unsewn ;  and  when  at  last  she  managed  to  tear  it  all 
off,  she  threw  it  on  the  ground  as  if  it  were  of  no 
value  and  she  was  only  too  glad  to  be  rid  of  it." 

After  having  lived  during  six  months  in  Petersburg, 
the  young  couple  left  for  Heidelberg  in  the  spring  of 
1869 ;  Sonya  to  study  mathematics,  and  her  husband 
to  study  geology.  After  they  had  matriculated  there, 
they  went  to  England,  where  S6nya  had  the  opportu- 
nity of  making  acquaintance  with  the  most  celebrated 
persons  of  the  day — George  Eliot,  Darwin,  Spencer, 
Huxley,  and  others. 

In  George  Eliot's  diary,  published  in  Mr.  Cross's 
biography  of  his  wife,  we  find  the  following  remarks, 
dated  October  6,  1869 : 

Last  Sunday  we  had  a  visit  from  an  interesting  Eussian  couple, 
M.  and  Mme.  KovaleVsky.  She,  a  sweet,  taking  creature,  with 
a  shy  voice  and  manner,  who  studies  mathematics  by  special 
permission,  which  she  procured  with  Kirchhoff  s  help  in  Heidel- 
berg. He,  amiable  and  intelligent,  studying  the  natural  sciences, 
especially  geology,  and  on  his  way  to  Vienna,  where  he  will  stay 
for  six  months ;  he  leaves  his  wife  in  Heidelberg. 

This  plan  was  not  immediately  realized,  and  Vladimir 
stayed  for  one  term  in  Heidelberg  with  his  wife.  Their 


A  BIOGKAPHY  173 

life  at  this  period  is  described  by  the  friend  already 
quoted,  who  had,  we  may  remark  in  passing,  received 
through  Sonya's  intervention  her  parents'  permission 
to  study. 

"A  few  days  after  my  arrival  in  Heidelberg,  in 
October,  1869,  Sonya  and  her  husband  arrived  from 
England.  She  seemed  veiy  happy  and  pleased  with 
her  journey.  She  was  as  fresh,  rosy,  and  joyous  as 
when  I  first  saw  her.  But  there  was  an  increased  fire 
and  sparkle  in  her  eyes.  She  felt  within  her  the  de- 
velopment of  new  vigor  and  energy  in  the  pursuit  of 
the  studies  she  had  barely  begun.  Her  serious  aspira- 
tions did  not  prevent  her,  however,  from  finding  en- 
joyment even  in  the  simplest  things.  I  well  remember 
our  walk  together  the  day  after  their  arrival.  "We  had 
wandered  about  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  town,  and 
when  we  came  to  a  level  road  we  two  young  girls  began 
to  run  races  like  children.  Oh,  how  fresh  are  those 
memories  of  the  early  days  of  our  University  life ! 
Sonya  seemed  to  me  so  very  happy,  and  that  in  such 
a  noble  way ;  yet,  when  in  after-years  she  spoke  of  her 
youth,  it  was  always  with  a  deep  bitterness,  as  though 
she  had  wasted  it.  At  such  times  I  remembered  those 
first  happy  months  in  Heidelberg ;  those  enthusiastic 
discussions  on  every  kind  of  topic,  and  her  poetical 
relationship  to  her  young  husband,  who  in  those  days 
adored  her  with  quite  an  ideal  love,  without  any  mix- 
ture of  less  noble  feeling.  She  seemed  to  love  him  in 
the  same  way,  and  both  were  innocent  of  those  lower 
passions  which  usually  go  by  the  name  of  love.  When 
I  think  of  all  this,  it  seems  to  me  that  Sonya  had  no 
reason  to  complain.  Her  youth  was  really  filled  with 
noble  feelings  and  aspirations,  and  she  had  at  her  side 
a  man,  with  his  feelings  completely  under  control,  who 
loved  her  tenderly.  This  was  the  only  time  I  have 


174  s6NYA  KOVAL£VSKY 

known  S6nya  to  be  really  happy.  A  little  later — even 
a  year  later — it  was  no  longer  quite  the  same. 

"Immediately  after  our  arrival  at  Heidelberg,  the 
lectures  began.  During  the  day  we  were  all  three  at 
the  University,  and  the  evenings  were  also  devoted  to 
study.  We  had  rarely  time,  during  the  week,  to  take 
walks,  but  on  Sundays  we  always  made  long  excur- 
sions outside  Heidelberg,  and  sometimes  we  went  to 
the  theater  at  Mannheim. 

"  We  had  very  few  acquaintances,  and  very  seldom 
called  on  any  of  the  professors'  families.  From  the 
first  Sonya  attracted  the  attention  of  her  teachers  by 
her  extraordinary  talent  for  mathematics.  Professor 
Konisberg,  and  the  celebrated  scientist  Kirchhoff, 
whose  lectures  on  practical  physics  she  attended,  both 
spoke  of  her  as  something  quite  marvelous.  Her  fame 
spread  so  widely  in  the  little  town  that  people  some- 
times stopped  in  the  streets  to  look  at  the  wonderful 
Russian,  and  she  came  home  and  told  me  laughingly 
how  a  poor  woman,  with  a  child  on  her  arm,  had 
stopped  and  pointed  to  her,  saying  aloud  to  the  child, 
<  Look !  look !  there  is  the  girl  who  is  so  diligent  at 
school ! ' 

"  Retiring  and  bashful,  and  almost  awkward  in  her 
manner  to  her  fellow-students  and  professors,  Sonya 
always  entered  the  University  with  downcast  eyes ;  she 
never  spoke  to  her  companions,  if  she  could  avoid  it, 
during  the  time  of  study.  Her  behavior  enchanted  the 
German  professors,  who  always  admire  bashfulness  in 
a  woman,  especially  in  one  so  charming  and  young,  and, 
withal,  one  who  was  studying  so  abstract  a  science  as 
mathematics.  This  bashfulness  was  not  in  the  least 
put  on,  but  entirely  natural  to  Sonya  at  this  time.  I 
remember  very  well  when  she  came  home  one  day  and 
told  me  how  she  had  discovered  an  error  in  the  demon- 


A  BIOGRAPHY  175 

stration  which  some  pupil  or  the  professor  had  made 
on  the  blackboard  during  the  lesson.  He  got  more 
and  more  confused  and  could  not  find  out  where  the 
mistake  lay.  Sonya  told  me  how  her  heart  beat  when 
at  last  she  had  the  courage  to  rise  and  go  up  to  the 
blackboard,  pointing  out  where  the  error  lay. 

"But  our  life  a  trois,  so  happy  and  so  full, — for 
M.  Kovalevsky  was  deeply  interested  in  all  subjects, 
even  those  which  did  not  touch  on  science, — did  not 
last  long. 

"  Sonya's  sister  and  her  friend  Inez  arrived  at  the 
beginning  of  the  winter.  They  were  both  many  years 
our  seniors.  As  we  had  not  much  room,  Kovalevsky 
decided  to  move  and  give  up  his  room  to  them.  Sonya 
visited  him  very  often,  spending  the  whole  day  with 
him,  and  they  often  took  walks  together  without  us. 
It  naturally  was  not  pleasant  for  them  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  so  many  women,  especially  as  the  two 
recent  arrivals  were  not  always  amiable  toward  Kova- 
levsky. They  had  their  peculiar  ideas,  and  thought 
that  as  the  marriage,  after  all,  was  only  a  formal  one, 
Kovalevsky  ought  not  to  try  to  give  a  more  intimate 
aspect  to  his  intercourse  with  his  wife.  This  inter- 
ference caused  irritation,  and  spoiled  the  good  under- 
standing of  our  little  circle. 

"After  a  term  spent  thus,  Kovalevsky  decided  to 
leave  Heidelberg,  where  he  no  longer  felt  at  ease. 
He  went  first  to  Jena,  and  then  to  Munich.  There 
he  lived  for  study  alone.  He  was  richly  endowed  by 
nature,  exceedingly  industrious,  very  simple  in  his 
habits,  and  with  no  desire  for  recreation.  Sonya  very 
often  said  that  a  book  and  a  glass  of  tea  were  all  that 
he  needed  to  content  him.  This  characteristic  was  not 
quite  pleasing  to  Sonya.  She  began  to  be  jealous  of 
his  studies  when  she  found  that  they  made  up  for  the 


176  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

loss  of  her  company.  We  sometimes  went  with  her 
to  pay  him  a  visit,  and  in  the  holidays  they  always 
traveled  together.  These  trips  seemed  to  give  Sony  a 
great  pleasure.  But  she  could  not  accustom  herself  to 
live  apart  from  her  husband,  and  she  began  to  worry 
him  with  continual  demands.  She  would  not  travel 
alone,  but  he  must  come  and  fetch  her  and  take  her 
where  she  wanted  to  go.  Just  when  he  was  most  busy 
with  his  studies  he  had  to  undertake  commissions  for 
her,  and  help  her  in  all  those  trifles  which  he  had  of 
his  own  accord  very  good-naturedly  taken  upon  his 
shoulders,  but  which  seemed  to  worry  him  now  that 
he  was  absorbed  by  scientific  study." 

When  Sonya,  later  on,  recalled  her  past  life,  her  com- 
plaint was  always,  "  No  one  has  ever  loved  me  truly ;" 
and  if  I  pleaded,  "  But  your  husband  loved  you  truly/' 
she  would  reply,  "  He  loved  me  only  when  he  was  with 
me,  but  he  got  on  so  well  without  me  that  he  could 
quite  well  live  apart  from  me." 

It  seemed  to  me  a  very  simple  explanation  of  the 
matter  that  he  preferred,  under  the  circumstances, 
and  busy  as  he  then  was  with  study,  not  to  spend  too 
much  time  near  her.  But  Sonya  did  not  see  it  in  this 
light.  She  had  always,  from  childhood  to  her  very 
last  hour,  a  curious  liking  for  ideal  and  exaggerated 
relationships ;  she  wanted  to  have  without  giving  aught 
in  return. 

I  believe  that  in  this  particular  lies  the  clue  to  her 
life's  tragedy.  I  will  again  allow  myself  to  quote 
further  observations,  made  by  the  same  friend  and 
fellow-student,  which  show  that  even  in  her  early 
youth  this  idiosyncrasy  was  already  developed,  and 
became  the  source  of  all  S6nya's  inner  struggles  and 
sufferings  in  after-life. 

"Sonya  valued  success  to  a  very  great  degree. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  177 

When  she  had  once  an  aim,  nothing  could  withhold 
her  from  its  pursuit,  and  when  her  feelings  were  not 
in  question  she  always  compassed  her  end.  When  her 
heart  was  concerned,  curiously  enough,  she  lost  her 
clear  judgment ;  she  required  too  much  from  those  who 
loved  her  and  whom  she  loved,  and  thought  to  gain  by 
force  what  would  have  been  given  to  her  spontaneously 
had  it  not  been  demanded.  She  had  a  perfect  crav- 
ing for  tenderness  and  intimate  friendship.  She  also 
needed  to  have  some  one  near  her  who  would  never 
leave  her  and  was  interested  in  all  that  interested 
herself ;  but  she  made  life  unbearable  to  all  who  li ved 
with  her.  She  was  herself  too  restless,  too  ill  balanced 
in  temperament,  to  be  satisfied  with  such  loving  com- 
panionship, although  it  was  her  ideal.  Her  own  in- 
dividuality was  far  too  pronounced  for  her  to  live  in 
harmony  with  others.  Kovalevsky  was  also,  in  his 
way,  restless  by  nature ;  always  full  of  new  ideas  and 
plans.  It  is  impossible  to  say  whether  these  two,  both 
so  rarely  endowed,  could  ever,  under  any  circumstances 
whatsoever,  have  lived  happily  together  for  any  length 
of  time." 

Sonya  remained  two  years  in  Heidelberg,  until  the 
autumn  of  1870,  when  she  went  to  Berlin  to  continue 
her  studies  under  Professor  Weierstrass's  direction. 
Her  husband  had  meanwhile  received  his  doctor's  de- 
gree in  Jena,  and  written  a  treatise  which  attracted 
much  attention.  He  thus  gained  great  celebrity  and 
became  a  scientist  of  importance. 


12 


m 


STUDIES  UNDER  WEIERSTRASS — VISITS  TO  PARIS  DURING 
THE  COMMUNE 

PROFESSOR  WEIERSTRASS,  much  to  his  aston- 
ishment, one  day  found  a  young  and  beautiful 
woman-student  standing  before  him,  asking  him  to 
take  her  as  a  pupil  in  mathematics.  The  University 
of  Berlin  was  closed  to  female  students  then  as  now. 
But  S6nya's  enthusiastic  desire  to  be  directed  in  her 
studies  by  the  man  regarded  as  the  father  of  modern 
mathematical  analysis  induced  her  to  entreat  him  to 
give  her  private  lessons.  The  professor  looked  at  his 
unknown  visitor  with  a  certain  amount  of  incredulity. 
He  promised  to  try  her,  and  gave  her  some  of  the 
problems  to  solve  which  he  had  set  for  some  of  his 
more  advanced  students  in  mathematics.  He  was  con- 
vinced she  would  not  succeed,  and  gave  the  matter  no 
further  thought.  Indeed,  her  appearance  at  the  first 
interview  had  made  no  impression  on  him  whatever. 
Badly  dressed,  as  she  always  was  at  this  period  of  her 
life,  she  wore  on  this  special  occasion  a  bonnet  which 
quite  hid  her  face  and  might  have  suited  a  woman 
twice  her  age. 

Professor  Weierstrass  himself  told  me  later  that  he 
had  no  idea  at  the  time  either  of  her  extreme  youth, 
or  of  the  highly  intellectual  expression  of  face  which 
usually  predisposed  every  one  in  her  favor. 

A  week  later  she  came  to  him  again,  saying  she  had 
178 


A  BIOGEAPHY  179 

solved  all  the  problems.  He  would  not  believe  her,  and 
bade  her  sit  down  beside  him  and  go  through  her  solu- 
tions point  by  point.  To  his  great  astonishment,  not 
only  was  everything  quite  right,  but  the  solutions  were 
eminently  clear  and  original.  In  the  eagerness  of  ex- 
position she  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  her  short  curly 
hair  fell  over  her  brow.  She  blushed  vividly  with  de- 
light at  the  professor's  approbation.  He,  no  longer 
young,  felt  a  sudden  emotion  of  tenderness  for  this 
child-woman,  who  had  evidently  the  gift  of  intuitive 
genius  to  a  degree  he  had  seldom  found  among  even 
his  older  and  more  developed  students. 

From  that  hour  the  great  mathematician  was  S6nya's 
friend  for  life,  and  the  most  faithful,  tender  counselor 
she  could  have  desired.  She  was  received  in  his  family 
like  a  daughter  and  sister,  and  continued  her  studies 
under  his  guidance  for  four  years — most  important 
ones  in  the  influence  they  exercised  on  her  future 
scientific  work,  which  was  always  pursued  in  the 
direction  given  to  it  by  Weierstrass ;  applying  to  it, 
and  developing,  her  master's  premises. 

Sonya's  husband  had  followed  her  to  Berlin,  but  left 
her  to  live  alone  there  with  her  friend  from  Heidelberg, 
visiting  her,  however,  very  frequently.  The  relations 
between  them  continued  peculiar  and  provoked  some 
astonishment  in  the  Weierstrass  family,  where  her 
husband  never  showed  himself,  though  his  wife  was 
on  an  intimate  footing  with  all, its  members.  Sonya 
never  mentioned  her  husband,  nor  did  she  introduce 
him  to  the  professor,  but  on  Sunday  evenings,  when 
she  went  to  Weierstrass  (he  coming  to  her  once  a 
week  besides),  her  husband  went  to  the  door  when  the 
lesson  was  finished,  rang  the  bell,  and  told  the  servant 
to  inform  Madame  Kovalevsky  that  the  carriage  was 
waiting. 


180  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

Sonya  had  always  been  shy  about  the  unnatural 
relations  between  her  husband  and  herself.  One  of 
the  Heidelberg  professors  used  to  tell  how,  when 
he  happened  to  meet  Kovalevsky  at  his  wife's  house, 
she  would  introduce  him  in  a  vague  way  as  a  "  rela- 
tion." 

Her  oft-quoted  friend  says  of  their  life  in  Berlin : 
"  Our  life  there  was  even  more  monotonous  and  lonely 
than  in  Heidelberg.  We  lived  all  by  ourselves.  Sonya 
was  busy  at  her  problems  the  whole  day  long,  and  was 
at  the  laboratory  till  the  evening,  when,  after  partak- 
ing together  of  a  hasty  repast,  we  again  sat  down  to 
work.  Excepting  Professor  Weierstrass,  who  was  a 
constant  visitor,  we  never  saw  any  one  within  our 
doors.  S6nya  was  always  in  low  spirits.  Nothing 
seemed  to  give  her  pleasure,  and  she  was  indifferent 
to  everything  but  study.  Her  husband's  visits  always 
brightened  her  up ;  but  the  joy  of  meeting  was  clouded 
by  frequently  recurring  misunderstandings  and  re- 
proaches, though  they  seemed  to  be  very  fond  of  each 
other,  and  constantly  took  long  walks  together. 

"  When  Sonya  was  alone  with  me  she  never  wanted 
to  leave  the  house,  not  even  for  a  walk,  nor  for  the 
most  necessary  shopping,  far  less  to  go  to  the  theater 
or  any  place  of  amusement.  At  Christmas-time  we 
were  invited  to  the  Weierstrasses',  who  had  a  Christmas 
tree  in  our  honor.  S6nya  was  absolutely  in  need  of  a 
dress,  but  could  not  be  induced  to  go  and  buy  one. 
We  nearly  quarreled  about  this  dress,  for  I  would  not 
buy  it  alone.  (Had  her  husband  been  there  all  would 
have  been  well,  for  he  always  looked  after  her  and 
chose  both  the  material  and  pattern  of  her  dress.) 
Finally  she  decided  on  allowing  her  hostess  to  choose 
and  order  the  dress,  so  that  she  need  not  stir  out  of 
doors  about  it.  Her  powers  of  endurance  when  at  the 


A  BIOGRAPHY  181 

most  difficult  mental  work,  sitting  hour  after  hour  im- 
movable at  her  desk,  were  almost  phenomenal.  In  the 
evening,  when  she  finally  put  up  her  papers,  she  would 
be  so  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts  that  she  would 
begin  walking  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room,  often 
ending  in  a  run  ;  and  she  often  talked  aloud  to  herself, 
and  sometimes  even  burst  into  laughter.  At  such  times 
she  seemed  to  be  altogether  beyond  earthly  things,  and 
to  be  carried  away  from  the  world  on  the  wings  of  ima- 
gination. But  she  would  never  tell  me  what  her  day- 
dreams were  about.  She  did  not  sleep  much  at  night, 
and  when  asleep  was  always  restless.  Sometimes  she 
would  wake  suddenly,  roused  by  some  fantastic  dream, 
and  then  would  frequently  ask  me  to  keep  awake  also. 
She  liked  to  relate  her  dreams,  which  were  often  inter- 
esting and  peculiar.  They  were  generally  of  the  nature 
of  visions,  and  she  believed  them  to  be,  to  a  certain 
extent,  prophetic ;  and  certainly  they  did  sometimes 
prove  true. 

"On  the  whole  Sonya  had  a  highly  nervous  tem- 
perament. Never  quiet,  she  was  always  setting  some 
greatly  involved  aim  before  her.  She  longed  intensely 
for  success,  yet  never  have  I  seen  her  more  depressed 
than  just  when  she  had  attained  some  object  for  which 
she  had  worked.  The  reality  seemed  so  little  to  fulfil 
her  expectations.  While  striving  to  obtain  her  object 
she  was  often  far  from  agreeable  to  others,  being  in- 
tently absorbed  in  her  work.  But  when  one  saw  her 
depressed  and  unhappy  in  the  midst  of  success  the 
deepest  pity  was  aroused.  This  continual  variation 
of  light  and  shadow  in  her  temperament  rendered  her 
most  interesting.  But,  on  the  whole,  our  life  in  Berlin, 
spent  in  uncomfortable  rooms,  bad  air,  and  amid  in- 
cessant, wearing  mental  labor,  without  any  interval 
of  recreation,  was  so  devoid  of  pleasure  that  I  often 
12* 


182  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

looked  back  on  our  early  Heidelberg  days  as  on  a  lost 
paradise. 

"  When,  in  the  autumn  of  1874,  Sonya  had  obtained 
her  doctor's  degree,  she  was  so  worn  out,  physically  and 
mentally,  that,  on  her  return  to  Russia,  she  could  not 
do  any  work  for  a  long  time." 

The  want  of  delight  in  her  work  above  mentioned 
was  peculiar  to  Sonya  when  she  had  any  scientific 
labors  in  hand.  She  always  overdid  herself,  and  in  no 
way  could  enjoy  life  or  the  work  itself ;  and  thought, 
instead  of  being  her  servant,  was  her  tyrant.  At  such 
times  she  experienced  none  of  the  joys  of  creating.  It 
was  different  later  on,  when  she  took  up  literary  work. 
This  always  gave  her  delight  and  put  her  into  good 
spirits. 

Other  causes  besides  S6nya's  exaggerated  manner  of 
study  contributed  to  make  her  stay  in  Berlin  far  from 
agreeable.  To  begin  with,  there  was  her  position  with 
regard  to  her  husband.  The  sense  of  its  strangeness 
had  been  aggravated  by  the  interference  of  her  parents. 
They  had  visited  her  several  times,  had  even  taken  her 
back  to  Petersburg ;  had  found  out  how  matters  stood, 
had  reproached  her  for  her  behavior,  and  tried  to  drive 
husband  and  wife  together.  But  Sonya  would  not  hear 
of  it.  Secondly,  Sonya  was  displeased  with  her  isolated 
position.  She  had  already  that  hunger  for  a  fuller  life 
which  afterward  consumed  her.  In  her  inmost  heart 
she  was  as  little  as  possible  the  female  pedant  which 
her  manner  of  life  suggested.  But  bashfulness,  or 
a  want  of  practical  sense;  the  consciousness  of  the 
strangeness  of  her  own  circumstances;  the  fear  of 
allowing  herself  to  be  compromised  in  her  lonely 
position — all  conduced  to  the  isolation  she  so  greatly 
regretted  when  speaking,  in  after-life,  of  her  early 
youth. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  183 

The  want  of  practical  knowledge  in  her  friend,  too, 
contributed  greatly  to  make  their  merely  material  life 
together  unbearable.  They  always  chanced  on  the 
most  miserable  lodgings,  the  worst  servants,  the  worst 
food.  Once  they  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  whole  gang 
of  thieves,  who  systematically  plundered  them.  They 
had  noticed  that  one  of  the  maid-servants  had  been 
stealing  their  things  for  a  long  time.  When  they 
reproached  her  she  grew  impertinent,  and  they  were 
obliged  to  dismiss  her  at  a  moment's  notice.  The  same 
evening,  as  they  sat  alone,  having  no  one  to  help  them 
to  make  their  beds  for  the  night,  some  one  knocked  at 
the  window,  which  was  on  the  ground  floor.  Looking 
out,  they  saw  a  strange  woman  peering  in.  They 
called  out  anxiously  to  know  what  she  wanted.  She 
replied  that  she  wanted  to  enter  their  service.  She 
impressed  them  disagreeably,  but  such  was  their  help- 
lessness that,  frightened  though  they  were,  they  en- 
gaged her.  This  woman  managed  so  to  terrorize 
them,  and  plundered  them  so  outrageously,  that  they 
had  to  call  in  the  police  before  they  could  get  rid 
of  her. 

Sonya  was,  however,  very  indifferent  to  the  material 
side  of  life.  She  barely  noticed  whether  her  food  was 
good  or  bad,  whether  her  room  was  tidy,  or  her  clothes 
in  good  order  or  torn.  It  was  only  when  things  got  to 
be  quite  unbearable  that  she  became  conscious  of  them. 
But  when  she  had  no  practical  friend  at  hand,  this 
happened  pretty  often. 

In  January,  1871,  Sonya  was  obliged  to  break  off 
her  studies  with  Weierstrass  to  set  forth  on  a  most 
adventurous  expedition. 

Aniuta  had  wearied  of  her  monotonous  life  at  Heidel- 
berg, and  gone  to  Paris  without  her  parents'  permis- 
sion. She  wanted  to  educate  herself  as  an  authoress, 


184  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

and  naturally  felt  no  interest  in  a  circumscribed  life 
with  Sonya  in  a  student's  chamber.  She  wished  to 
study  the  world  and  the  theater,  and  live  in  literary 
circles. 

As  soon,  therefore,  as  she  was  free  from  parental 
control,  she  definitely  took  her  own  way.  It  was  im- 
possible for  her  to  write  and  tell  her  father  that  she 
was  living  alone  in  Paris,  so  she  gave  full  license  to 
her  desire  to  live  her  own  life  independently,  and  de- 
ceived him.  She  wrote  to  him  through  Sonya,  so  that 
her  letters  always  bore  the  same  postmark  as  those 
of  her  sister.  She  originally  intended  to  make  but  a 
short  stay  in  Paris,  and  quieted  her  conscience  by  the 
plea  that  she  would  explain  her  conduct  by  word  of 
mouth. 

But  she  then  entered  into  a  relationship  which  fas- 
cinated her  so  entirely  that  it  was  impossible  for  her 
to  extricate  herself.  Every  day  she  remained  in  Paris 
it  became  more  difficult  to  communicate  honestly  with 
her  parents.  She  entered  into  a  liaison  with  a  young 
Frenchman,  who  later  became  one  of  the  communist 
leaders ;  and  she  thus  found  herself  immured  in  Paris 
during  the  whole  of  the  siege. 

Sonya  was  much  disturbed  as  to  the  fate  of  her 
sister,  and  deeply  impressed  with  the  responsibility 
which  rested  on  her  own  shoulders  for  having  abetted 
her  secret  journey.  Immediately  after  the  siege  of 
Paris  was  raised  she  and  her  husband  sought  to  enter 
that  city  in  order  to  search  for  Aniuta. 

S6nya  could  never  speak  of  this  journey  in  later 
years  without  congratulating  herself,  and  marveling  at 
their  success  in  getting  into  the  town  right  in  the  face 
of  the  German  troops.  She  and  Vladimir  wandered  on 
foot  along  the  Seine  till  they  came  to  a  deserted  boat, 
drawn  up  upon  the  shore.  Of  this  they  at  once  took 


A  BIOGRAPHY  185 

possession  and  rowed  off.  But  hardly  were  they  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  shore  than  a  sentinel  saw  and 
challenged  them.  For  reply  they  rowed  away  with  all 
their  might,  and  by  good  luck,  owing  to  the  careless- 
ness and  dilatoriness  of  the  sentinel,  they  reached  the 
opposite  side,  whence,  unobserved,  they  slipped  into 
Paris.  They  thus  chanced  to  arrive  there  at  the  very 
commencement  of  the  Commune. 

Sonya  had  intended,  later  on,  to  publish  her  experi- 
ences during  this  epoch,  but,  alas !  like  so  many  other 
plans,  this  lies  with  her  in  the  grave.  Among  other 
things  she  intended  to  write  a  novel  to  be  entitled 
"  The  Sisters  Raevsky  under  the  Commune." *  In  it 
she  meant  to  describe  a  night  with  the  ambulance- 
corps,  for  she  and  Aniuta  served  in  it.  Here,  too,  they 
found  other  young  girls  who  had  formerly  moved  in 
their  own  circle  in  Petersburg. 

While  bombs  were  whizzing  round  them,  and 
wounded  men  were  being  constantly  brought  in,  the 
girls  talked  in  whispers  of  their  former  experiences,  so 
unlike  their  present  surroundings  that  they  seemed  to 
them  like  a  dream.  And  like  a  dream  to  Sonya,  at 
least, — like  a  fairy  tale, — were  all  the  strange  incidents 
which  now  pressed  upon  her.  She  was  still  at  the  age 
of  intense  fervor  of  feeling,  and  the  events  of  world- 
wide historic  interest  that  were  taking  place  around  her 
impressed  her  more  than  the  most  exciting  romance. 
She  watched  the  bursting  bombs  without  the  least 
trepidation ;  they  only  excited  a  not  unpleasant  flutter- 
ing of  the  heart  and  a  secret  delight  that  she  was  in 
the  very  midst  of  the  drama. 

For  her  sister  she  could  at  this  moment  do  nothing. 
Aniuta  took  an  active  interest  in  the  political  disturb- 
ances, and  asked  for  nothing  better  than  to  risk  her 
1  Appendix  B. 


186  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

life  for  the  man  to  whom  she  had  indissolubly  linked 
her  existence. 

Shortly  after,  the  Kovalevskys  left  Paris,  and  Sonya 
resumed  her  studies  in  Berlin.  But  after  the  suppres- 
sion of  the  Commune,  S6nya  was  again  called  to  Paris. 
This  time  it  was  her  sister  who  sent  for  her,  entreating 
her  intervention  with  her  father.  Aniuta  longed  for 
his  forgiveness,  and  was  anxious  that  he  should  use  his 
influence  to  extricate  her  from  the  exceeding  distress 
into  which  she  had  now  fallen.  The  man  for  whom 
she  had  forsaken  all  was  a  prisoner  and  doomed  to 
death. 

When  one  recalls  the  picture  which  Sonya  has  given 
of  her  father  in  the  "  Recollections  of  Childhood,"  one 
can  easily  realize  how  terrible  a  blow  it  was  to  him 
to  learn  the  whole  grim  truth  of  the  deception  of  his 
children,  and  the  fact  that  his  eldest  daughter  had 
taken  her  own  course  in  a  manner  calculated  to  wound 
most  deeply  all  his  instincts  and  principles. 

Years  before  he  had  been  almost  out  of  his  mind 
with  grief  and  deep  annoyance  on  the  discovery  that 
Aniuta  had  secretly  written  a  novel  and  had  received 
money  for  it.  He  said  to  her  at  the  time,  "  You  sell 
your  work  now,  but  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  the  day 
will  not  come  when  you  will  sell  yourself."  Strangely 
enough,  he  was  much  more  gentle  on  hearing  the  truth 
now,  when  his  daughter  had  given  him  a  far  more 
terrible  cause  of  grief.  Both  he  and  his  wife,  accom- 
panied by  Sonya  and  her  husband,  hastened  at  once  to 
Paris,  and  when  Krukovsky  met  his  erring  daughter 
he  was  most  generous  and  forgiving.  His  daughters, 
who  knew  that  they  deserved  quite  other  treatment, 
devoted  themselves  to  him  from  that  hour  with  a 
tenderness  they  had  never  before  evinced. 

I  cannot,  alas !  give  the  whole  story  of  this  troublous 


A  BIOGRAPHY  187 

time.  General  Krukovsky  was  acquainted  with  Thiers ; 
he  therefore  turned  to  him  to  procure  a  pardon  for  his 
future  son-in-law.  Thiers  answered  that  no  one  could 
obtain  this  favor ;  but  one  day,  in  course  of  conversa- 
tion, he  mentioned,  as  if  accidentally,  that  the  band  of 

prisoners  among  whom  was  Monsieur  J would  be 

moved  the  following  day  to  another  prison.  They 
were  to  pass  by  a  building  in  which  there  was  an  ex- 
hibition, and  just  at  an  hour  when  there  would  be  a 
good  many  people  about.  Aniuta  went  to  the  spot 
and  mixed  with  the  crowd.  The  instant  the  prisoners 
appeared  she  slipped  unnoticed  among  the  soldiers  who 

surrounded  them,  and,  catching  Monsieur  J by  the 

arm,  disappeared  with  him  through  the  crowd  into  the 
exhibition.  From  there  they  escaped  by  one  of  the 
other  doors,  and  reached  the  railway-station  in  safety. 

This  tale  sounds  wild  and  improbable,  but  I  have 
only  been  able  to  write  it  down  as  I,  and  many  of 
Sonya's  friends,  remember  it.  When  people  we  love 
are  dead,  how  bitterly  we  regret  that  we  have  not 
stored  up  in  memory  their  least  word,  noted  down  all 
the  interesting  things  they  have  told  us !  In  the  pres- 
ent case  I  have  all  the  greater  cause  for  regret  because 
Sonya  often  said  to  me  that  I  must  write  her  biography 
when  she  was  dead.  But  who  thinks  at  the  moment  of 
confidential  talk  that  the  day  may  come  all  too  quickly 
when  one  will  stand  alone,  with  merely  the  memory 
of  the  living  bond  which  united  him  to  the  departed  ? 
Who  is  not  inclined  to  hope  that  the  morrow  will  bring 
richer  opportunities  for  supplying  the  gaps  which  so 
often  occur  in  rapid  conversation,  when  thoughts  run 
on  from  point  to  point  ? 

In  1874  Sonya  received  a  doctor's  degree  from  the 
University  of  Gottingen  on  account  of  three  treatises 
which  she  had  written  under  the  guidance  of  Weier- 


188  SCNYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

strass,  and  more  especially  on  account  of  the  one  en- 
titled "  Zur  Theorie  der  partiellen  Differentialgleichun- 
gen"  (CrelWs  Journal).  It  is  considered  to  be  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  works  she  ever  published.  By 
special  dispensation  she  was  exempted  from  the  viva 
wee  examination.  The  following  letter  to  the  Dean  of 
the  Philosophical  Faculty  in  Gb'ttingen  shows  the 
characteristic  motive  which  led  Sonya  to  crave  this 
favor,  so  rarely,  and  only  in  the  most  exceptional 
cases,  granted. 

The  very  reverend  Dean  will  gracionsly  permit  me  to  add 
something  to  the  letter  in  which  I  present  myself  for  admission 
to  the  degree  of  Doctor  Phil,  in  the  mathematical  faculty.  It  is 
not  lightly  that  I  have  decided  on  this  step,  which  compels  me 
to  forsake  the  retirement  in  which  I  have  hitherto  lived.  It  is 
only  a  wish  to  satisfy  my  dearest  friends  which  causes  me  to 
desire  from  my  inmost  heart  to  be  fairly  tested.  I  wish  to  give 
them  an  incontestable  proof  that,  in  devoting  myself  to  the 
study  of  mathematics,  I  am  following  the  determined  bent  of  my 
nature,  and  that,  moreover,  this  study  is  not  without  result.  It 
is  this  which  has  made  me  overcome  my  scruples.  I  have  been 
told  that,  as  a  foreigner,  I  can  obtain  the  degree  in  absentia  if  I 
can  show  works  of  sufficient  importance,  and  produce  recommen- 
dations from  competent  authorities. 

At  the  same  time  I  hope  the  very  reverend  Dean  will  not  mis- 
construe me  if  I  acknowledge  openly  that  I  do  not  know  whether 
I  have  sufficient  aplomb  to  undergo  an  cxamen  rigorosum,  and  I 
fear  that  the  unusual  position,  and  having  to  answer,  face  to 
face,  men  with  whom  I  am  altogether  unacquainted,  would  con- 
fuse me,  although  I  know  the  examiners  would  do  all  they  could 
for  me.  In  addition  to  this,  I  speak  German  very  badly.  When 
I  try  to  speak  it,  it  seems  to  escape  me,  though,  when  I  am  at 
leisure,  I  can  use  it  in  all  my  mathematical  work.  The  cause  of 
my  faulty  German  is  that  though  I  began  to  speak  it  five  years 
ago,  I  spent  four  of  those  years  quite  alone  in  Berlin,  never  hav- 
ing any  occasion  to  speak  or  hear  the  language,  except  during  the 
few  hours  my  honored  master  devoted  to  me.  For  these  reasons 
I  venture  to  request  the  very  reverend  Dean  kindly  to  intervene 
so  that  I  may  be  exempted  from  the  examen  rigorosum. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  189 

This  petition,  but  above  all  the  great  merit  of  her 
work  and  her  excellent  testimonials,  enabled  Sonya  to 
gain  the  rare  privilege  of  receiving  a  doctor's  degree 
without  appearing  in  person. 

Shortly  after,  the  whole  family  Krukovsky  were  once 
more  united  in  their  old  ancestral  home  at  Palibino. 


rv 

LIFE  IN  RUSSIA 

HOW  that  family  had  changed  since  the  days  of 
Sonya's  childhood  is  described  in  her  writings. 
The  two  young  girls  who  had  dwelt  in  the  quiet  home, 
dreaming  of  the  strange  world  of  which  they  were  so 
ignorant,  met  there  once  more  as  grown-up  women, 
tried  and  developed  by  the  experiences  which  each  had 
gone  through  alone. 

Life,  for  them,  'had  indeed  been  different  from  the 
life  of  which  they  had  dreamed. 

It  had,  however,  been  full  and  varied  enough  to  give 
rise  to  long  conversations  round  the  fire  during  the 
long  winter  evenings  spent  in  the  large  drawing-room, 
with  its  red-damask  furniture,  the  samovar  singing  on 
the  table,  its  home-like  sound  mingling  with  the  dismal 
hunger-song  of  the  wolves  in  the  forest  without. 

The  world  beyond  these  precincts  no  longer  seemed  to 
the  two  girls  so  vast  and  immeasurable.  They  had  seen 
it  close  at  hand,  and  realized  its  proportions  more  fully. 

Aniuta,  on  the  one  hand,  had  led  a  life  full  of  ex- 
citement, and  her  craving  for  emotion  had  been  more 
than  gratified.  She,  at  least,  no  longer  indulged  in 
such  cravings.  She  was  passionately  in  love  with  the 
husband  who  sat  beside  her,  with  a  weary,  satirical 
expression  on  his  face.  Nay,  she  was  even  jealously 
attached  to  him,  and  her  life  was  still  so  full  of  ex- 
citement that  no  extra  stimulus  was  needed. 

190 


A  BIOGRAPHY  191 

Her  younger  sister  had  hithero  lived  entirely  with 
her  brain.  She  had  so  completely  satisfied  her  thirst 
for  knowledge  that  she  was  satiated,  and  mental  work 
was  now  impossible.  She  spent  most  of  her  time  read- 
ing novels  and  playing  cards,  and  otherwise  sharing 
in  the  social  life  of  her  neighbors,  who  had  no  higher 
or  more  intellectual  pursuits. 

Sonya's  greatest  joy  at  this  period  of  her  life  was 
in  the  change  which  had  come  over  her  father.  He 
belonged,  as  did  Sonya  herself,  to  the  small  class  of 
individuals  who  are  able  by  sheer  force  of  purpose 
and  will  to  modify  and  develop  their  own  characters. 
The  harshness  and  despotism  which  had  been  his  chief 
characteristics  were  much  subdued  by  the  severe  trials 
to  which  his  daughters  had  subjected  him.  He  had 
learned  that  no  one  being  can  really  rule  the  destiny 
of  others  by  force — not  even  in  the  case  of  a  father 
with  his  children.  He  bore,  with  a  tolerance  marvel- 
ous in  one  of  his  nature,  the  socialistic  and  radical  asser- 
tions of  his  communist  son-in-law  and  the  materialistic 
tendencies  of  the  other  son-in-law,  the  scientific  pro- 
fessor. This  was  the  most  cherished  memory  Sonya 
kept  of  her  father,  and  one  which  was  the  more  deeply 
impressed  on  her  mind  because  it  was  associated  with 
the  last  winter  of  his  life. 

Her  father  died  unexpectedly  and  without  warning 
from  an  aneurism  of  the  heart.  The  blow  was  terrible 
to  Sonya.  She  had,  during  the  last  few  months,  been 
on  terms  of  tender  intimacy  with  her  father,  and  had, 
indeed,  always  loved  him  more  than  she  did  her  mother. 

This  mother  had  a  bright  and  winning  nature. 
Every  one  was  kind  to  her,  and  she  was  kind  to  every 
one.  But,  just  in  consequence  of  this,  S6nya  was  little 
in  sympathy  with  her  mother.  She  fancied  herself  less 
of  a  favorite  with  her  than  the  other  children.  But 


192  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

her  father  had  always  preferred  her  to  the  others,  and 
after  his  death  she  felt  utterly  sad  and  lonely. 

Aniuta  had  her  husband,  on  whose  neck  she  could 
weep  out  all  her  grief.  But  Sonya  had  no  one  to  turn 
to  for  comfort.  She  had  always  kept  at  a  distance  the 
man  whose  highest  ambition  was  to  be  her  comfort  and 
support.  But  now  this  distance  seemed  to  her  painful 
and  unnatural ;  and  thus  her  desire  for  affection  in- 
duced her  to  overcome  her  prejudices.  During  the 
silent  hours  of  sorrow  she  glided  into  full  relationship 
with  her  husband. 

**##*# 

During  the  next  winter  the  whole  family  went  to 
St.  Petersburg.  There  S6nya  soon  found  herself  the 
center  of  an  intellectual  circle  such  as  could  be  hardly 
found  elsewhere — a  circle  alert  and  wide  awake ;  men- 
tally, so  to  speak,  on  the  qui  vive. 

Enlightened  and  liberal-minded  Russians  are,  it  is 
generally  agreed,  far  more  many-sided,  freer  from 
prejudice,  and  broader  in  their  views  than  any  other 
nation. 

This  was  the  experience  not  only  of  Sonya,  but  of 
all  who  have  moved  in  such  circles.  They  are  in  the 
van  of  advanced  thought  in  Europe,  and  are  ever  the 
first  to  discover  the  dawn  of  fresh  light.  They  are  also 
more  enthusiastic,  and  have  a  greater  faith  in  ideals, 
than  the  educated  thinkers  of  other  nations. 

In  such  circles  S6nya  at  last  felt  herself  appreciated 
and  understood. 

After  five  long  years  spent  in  severe  study,  and 
utterly  devoid  of  amusement,  there  was  now  to  her, 
in  the  full  prime  of  her  youth,  something  captivating 
and  enchanting  in  the  sudden  change.  All  her  brilliant 
gifts  developed  as  if  by  magic,  and  she  threw  herself 
heartily  into  the  whirl  of  "  society "  gaiety,  with  its 


A  BIOGRAPHY  193 

fetes,  theaters,  lectures,  receptions,  picnics,  and  other 
pleasures. 

The  circle  which  now  surrounded  her  was  more 
literary  than  scientific  in  its  interests.  With  the 
natural  longing  to  be  in  full  sympathy  with  her 
surroundings  which  was  one  of  Sonya's  strongest  sen- 
timents, she  now  threw  herself  into  literary  pursuits. 
She  wrote  newspaper  articles,  poetry,  and  theatrical 
criticisms.  But  her  writings  were  always  anonymous. 
She  also  wrote  a  novel  entitled  "  The  Privat-docent," 
a  tale  of  a  small  German  university  town.  It  was 
considered  to  show  great  promise. 

Aniuta,  who,  during  these  years,  lived  in  St.  Peters- 
burg with  her  husband,  now  came  definitely  to  the 
fore  as  an  authoress,  and  with  much  success;  while 
Vladimir  Kovalevsky  was  busy  translating  and  pub- 
lishing popular  scientific  works,  such  as  "  The  Birds  " 
of  Brehm. 

The  legacy  left  to  Sonya  by  her  father  was  small, 
for  he  left  the  bulk  of  his  fortune  to  his  wife.  But 
the  life  into  which  S6nya  had  plunged  demanded  a 
certain  amount  of  luxury  and  style.  Perhaps  it  was 
this  which  first  induced  her  to  indulge  in  speculations. 
Her  husband,  who  was  personally  utterly  indifferent 
to  luxury,  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  into  these 
transactions,  for  he  was  of  a  lively,  imaginative,  and 
also  somewhat  yielding  nature. 

Venture  followed  upon  venture.  The  Kovalevskys 
built  many-storied  houses,  baths,  and  extensive  hot- 
houses in  St.  Petersburg.  They  published  newspapers, 
launched  new  inventions  of  every  kind,  and  for  a  time 
it  looked  as  though  fortune  would  smile  upon  them. 
Their  friends  prophesied  a  brilliant  future ;  and  in  1878, 
when  their  first  child,  a  daughter,  was  born,  she  was 
hailed  as  a  future  heiress. 

13 


194  SCNYA  KOVALtiVSKY 

But,  as  usual,  Sonya  had  even  then  premonitions  of 
coming  evil.  One  of  her  friends  recalls  to  mind  that, 
on  the  day  on  which  the  foundation-stone  of  their  first 
house  was  to  be  laid,  Sonya  remarked  that  the  occasion 
was  spoiled  for  her  by  a  dream  she  had  had  on  the 
previous  night. 

She  dreamed  that  she  was  standing  on  the  spot 
where  the  stone  was  to  be  laid,  surrounded  by  the 
throng  assembled  to  witness  the  ceremony.  Suddenly 
the  crowd  parted,  and  she  saw  her  husband  in  the 
midst,  struggling  with  a  diabolical  being  which  strove 
to  trample  him  beneath  its  feet,  and  which,  on  suc- 
ceeding, laughed  sardonically. 

This  dream  affected  Sonya  so  powerfully  that  she 
became  depressed  and  low-spirited  for  some  time ;  and 
truly  it  was  a  dream  which,  later  on,  was  verified  in  a 
terrible  manner. 

When,  one  after  another,  these  vast  speculations 
failed,  S6nya's  fortitude  and  energy  showed  them- 
selves in  all  their  greatness. 

She  had  for  a  while,  it  is  true,  permitted  her  ima- 
gination to  be  fired  by  the  common  temptation  of 
using  her  intelligence  and  creative  genius  for  the  ac- 
quisition of  a  fortune ;  but  her  soul  could  not  long  be 
wedded  to  so  paltry  an  aim.  She  was  able  to  lose 
millions  at  one  blow  without  suffering  a  sleepless  night 
or  acquiring  a  new  wrinkle  on  her  brow.  She  could 
behold  all  prospect  of  wealth  vanish  without  one  re- 
gret. She  had  desired  to  be  rich  because  life,  in  all  its 
forms,  tempted  her.  Her  passionate  and  imaginative 
nature  made  her  wish  for  a  full  experience.  But  when 
she  found  that  she  could  not  succeed  in  this,  she  with- 
drew at  once,  and  summoned  up  all  her  energy  and 
fortitude  in  order  to  comfort  her  husband. 

Strange  to  say,  this  simple-minded  man,  to  whom 


A  BIOGRAPHY  195 

money  for  its  own  sake  had  never  been  a  temptation, 
and  who  had  never  been  attracted  by  the  advantages 
it  could  offer,  had  thrown  his  whole  soul  into  their 
undertakings,  and  it  seemed  as  if,  to  his  nature,  defeat 
and  failure  were  absolutely  crushing.  Sonya,  on  the 
other  hand,  with  rare  courage,  not  only  bowed  to  the 
inevitable,  but  also  threw  herself  with  renewed  zeal 
into  fresh  pursuits. 

She  succeeded  in  averting  the  impending  crisis  in 
their  finances.  She  shunned  neither  effort  nor  humilia- 
tion. She  went  round  to  the  friends  who  had  been 
interested  in  their  ventures,  and  offered  terms  which 
satisfied  all  parties.  She  thus  earned  her  husband's 
intense  gratitude  and  admiration.  Again  their  for- 
tunes seemed  secured ;  but  the  diabolic  being  who  had 
terrified  Sonya  in  her  dream  now  crossed  their  path 
in  dread  reality. 

A  kind  of  adventurer,  with  whom  Kovalevsky  had 
come  into  contact  through  his  ventures,  now  tried 
to  involve  him  in  new  and  yet  more  dangerous 
speculations. 

Sonya,  who  read  character  well  at  first  sight,  con- 
tracted such  an  immediate  and  strong  aversion  to  this 
man  that  she  could  not  endure  his  presence  in  her 
house.  She  entreated  her  husband  to  break  with 
him  and  return  to  scientific  pursuits.  But  in  vain. 
Vladimir,  in  1881,  was  made  Professor  of  Paleontology 
at  the  University  of  Moscow,  and  there  he  settled  with 
his  family ;  but  he  could  not  tear  himself  away  from 
speculation,  which  now  took  wilder  flights  than  ever. 
Petroleum-springs  in  the  interior  of  Russia  attracted 
his  attention.  He  hoped  to  gain  millions  for  himself 
while  increasing  and  developing  Russian  industries. 
He  was  so  blinded  by  his  coadjutor  that  he  would  not 
listen  to  his  wife's  warnings.  As  he  could  not  induce 


196  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

her  to  adopt  his  view  of  the  matter,  he  refused  her  his 
confidence,  and  carried  out  his  ideas  alone.  This  was 
most  painful  to  Sonya,  and  quite  unbearable  to  a  person 
of  her  character. 

After  having  once  decided  to  enter  into  full  union 
with  her  husband,  she  had  done  everything  to  deepen 
and  intensify  their  relations  to  each  other.  It  was 
her  nature  to  give  herself  up  with  passionate  devotion 
to  that  which,  for  the  time  being,  was  foremost  in  her 
life.  She  also  drew  marked  lines  between  what  was 
important  and  what  was  unimportant ;  and  this  trait 
in  her  character  made  her  superior  to  others  of  her  sex, 
for  she  never  neglected  primary  for  secondary  duties, 
and  never  took  a  narrow  view  of  life.  She  could  not 
put  up  with  half-heartedness  where  feelings  were  con- 
cerned. She  would  sacrifice  everything  to  secure  a 
deep,  whole-hearted  union.  She  strove  to  the  utmost 
to  rescue  her  husband  from  the  danger  she  foresaw. 
One  of  her  friends  describes  her  struggles  thus: 
"  Sonya  tried  to  interest  Kovalevsky  again  in  science. 
She  studied  geology,  helped  to  prepare  his  lectures,  and 
tried  to  make  home  life  delightful  to  him,  so  that  he 
might  recover  his  mental  balance.  But  it  was  of  no 
avail.  My  notion  is  that  Kovalevsky  was  at  that  time 
not  in  a  normal  state  of  mind.  His  nerves  had  been 
overwrought,  and  he  could  not  recover  himself." 

The  adventurer,  of  course,  could  wish  for  nothing 
better  than  to  foster  the  misunderstanding  that  now 
arose  between  husband  and  wife.  He  made  Sonya 
believe  that  Kovalevsky's  reserve  and  inaccessibility 
were  due  to  other  causes,  and  that  she  had  good  cause 
for  jealousy. 

Through  S6nya's  own  "  Recollections  of  Childhood  " 
we  know  that,  as  a  child  of  ten,  she  already  showed 
signs  of  being  possessed  by  consuming  jealousy.  To 


A  BIOGRAPHY  197 

touch  that  chord  was  to  awaken  the  strongest  passion 
of  her  violent  nature. 

Sonya  now  lost  her  critical  judgment,  and  was  not 
in  a  fit  state  to  inquire  whether  this  charge  against 
her  husband  were  true  or  not.  Later  on  in  life  she 
became  almost  convinced  that  it  had  been  a  pure 
invention.  But  at  the  moment  she  felt  a  strong  in- 
clination to  get  away  from  the  humiliation  of  feeling 
herself  neglected,  fearing  lest  her  passion  should  make 
her  condescend  to  the  pettiness  of  spying  upon  her 
husband's  movements,  or  lead  to  distressing  scenes. 
She  dreaded  living  with  a  man  whose  love  and  con- 
fidence she  believed  she  had  lost,  or  seeing  him  go  to 
his  ruin  without  being  able  to  save  him. 

Such  fears  and  dread  were  too  much  for  a  nature  to 
which  resignation  was  almost  impossible.  In  matters 
of  feeling  she  was  as  uncompromising  and  exacting 
as  she  was  lenient  and  easy  to  satisfy  in  all  material 
things.  She  had,  without  loving  him,  surrendered  her- 
self to  her  husband,  and  made  his  interests  her  own. 
She  had  striven  to  bind  him  to  herself  with  all  the 
exquisite  tenderness  which  a  nature  like  hers  bestows 
upon,  but  also  requires  from,  the  man  who  was  her 
husband  and  the  father  of  her  child. 

When,  despite  all,  she  saw  her  husband  turn  from 
her,  and  believed  he  had  put  another  in  her  place,  the 
network  of  tenderness  which  she  had  purposely  woven 
around  him  broke.  Her  heart  contracted  and  shut  out 
the  picture  of  him  whom  she  had  determined  to  love, 
and  once  more  she  was  alone. 

She  decided  to  make  a  future  for  herself  and  her 
little  daughter  entirely  by  her  own  endeavor,  and  she 
left  husband,  home,  and  country,  to  resume  once  more 
her  student  life  abroad. 

13* 


ADVENTURES  —  BEREAVEMENT 

WHEN  the  train  had  moved  out  of  the  station, 
and  Sonya  lost  sight  of  the  friends  who  had 
come  to  bid  her  farewell,  she  gave  vent  to  the  feelings 
she  had  hitherto  suppressed,  and  broke  into  uncon- 
trollable sobbing.  She  wept  for  the  lost  years  of 
happiness,  for  the  lost  dream  of  full  and  perfect 
union  with  another  soul ;  she  trembled  at  the  thought 
of  the  lonely  student's  room,  which  once  had  contained 
her  whole  life,  but  which  could  not  satisfy  her  any 
longer,  now  that  she  had  experienced  the  joy  of  being 
beloved  in  her  own  home,  and  by  a  circle  of  appreciative 
friends. 

She  tried  to  console  herself  by  the  thought  of  re- 
suming her  mathematical  studies.  She  dreamed  of 
writing  a  book  which  should  make  her  celebrated  and 
bring  glory  to  her  sex.  But  it  was  no  good.  These 
joys  paled  before  the  personal  happiness  which  during 
the  last  few  years  had  been  the  purpose  and  aim  of  her 
heart. 

The  paroxysms  of  tears  became  more  and  more 
violent,  and  she  shook  from  head  to  foot. 

She  had  not  noticed  that  an  elderly  gentleman, 
sitting  opposite  to  her  in  the  carriage,  was  watching 
her  with  sympathy. 

"  I  cannot  see  you  cry  in  this  way ! "  he  exclaimed 
at  last.  "  I  suppose  it  is  the  first  time  you  have  gone 

198 


A  BIOGEAPHY  199 

out  into  the  world  alone.  But  you  are  not  going  into 
the  midst  of  cannibals.  A  young  girl  like  yourself  will 
always  find  friends  and  help  when  she  needs  them." 

She  had  allowed  this  stranger  to  witness  her  despair, 
though  hitherto  she  had  hidden  her  wounds  from  her 
nearest  and  dearest.  It  was  a  relief  when  she  noticed 
that  he  had  not  the  least  idea  who  she  was.  During 
the  conversation  which  now  followed,  it  became  evi- 
dent that  he  took  her  for  a  little  governess  going 
abroad  to  earn  her  living  in  a  strange  family. 

She  kept  up  his  illusion,  only  too  happy  to  preserve 
her  incognito,  and  even  amused  at  playing  a  little 
comedy  which  served  to  distract  her  thoughts.  It  was 
not  difficult  for  her  to  conceive  her  role  so  completely 
as  to  identify  herself  in  imagination  with  the  supposed 
poor  little  governess. 

With  downcast  eyes  she  received  advice  and  com- 
fort from  her  good-natured  traveling-companion.  So 
strong  was  the  fantastic  element  in  her  character  that, 
despite  her  great  sorrow,  she  began  to  enjoy  the 
mystification. 

When  the  gentleman  proposed  that  they  should  stop 
in  the  town  they  were  passing  through,  and  see  what- 
ever it  might  afford  that  was  interesting,  she  consented 
to  do  so.  They  spent  a  couple  of  days  there,  and  then 
parted  without  having  even  learned  each  other's  name 
or  position. 

This  little  episode  is  characteristic  of  Sonya's  love 
of  adventure.  The  stranger  had  been  sympathetic  to 
her.  His  kind  interest  in  her  sorrow  touched  her. 
She  felt  alone  in  the  world;  why  not  accept  this 
bright  gleam  which  chance  had  thrown  in  her  way  ? 
Another  woman  might  doubtless  have  compromised 
herself  hopelessly  in  a  man's  eyes  by  such  conduct. 
Two  days'  intercourse  with  a  man  from  morning  to 


200  S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

evening — a  man  who  did  not  even  know  who  she  was ! 
But  to  Sonya,  who  had  for  so  many  years  lived  on 
terms  of  bonne  camaraderie  with  her  husband,  it  seemed 
quite  simple.  She  knew  well  how  to  draw  the  line 
whenever  she  chose.  No  man  had  ever  misunderstood 
her. 

A  few  years  later  she  entered  into  equally  strange 
and  peculiar  relations  with  a  young  man  in  Paris. 

The  keeper  of  the  lodging-house  in  the  suburbs  of 
that  city  where  she  lived  must  hardly  have  known 
what  to  think.  Time  after  time  this  woman  saw  a 
young  man  leave  the  house  at  two  in  the  morning,  and 
climb  over  the  palings  surrounding  the  garden.  As 
this  young  man  spent  all  his  days  with  Sonya,  and 
often  stayed  till  late  at  night,  and  as,  at  this  time, 
she  had  no  other  friends,  it  certainly  did  seem  a 
rather  doubtful  proceeding.  Nevertheless  the  friend- 
ship existing  between  these  two  was  of  the  most  ideal 
kind  imaginable. 

The  young  man  was  a  Pole,  and  a  revolutionist; 
moreover,  a  mathematician  and  a  poet.  His  and 
Sonya's  souls  were  two  fiery  flames  merged  in  one 
glow.  No  one  had  ever  understood  her  so  well  and 
sympathized  with  her  so  much  as  he.  No  one  had  so 
entered  into  every  word,  thought,  and  dream.  They 
were  almost  constantly  together,  and  yet  they  em- 
ployed the  few  moments  during  which  they  were 
parted  in  pouring  forth  to  each  other,  in  writing, 
their  inmost  thoughts.  They  composed  poetry  to- 
gether, and  began  writing  a  long  romance.  They 
indulged  in  the  idea  that  every  human  being  has  its 
twin  soul,  so  that  every  individual  man  or  woman  is 
but  half  a  creature.  The  other  half,  which  is  to  com- 
plete the  soul,  is  always  to  be  found  somewhere  on  the 
earth.  But  rarely  in  this  life  do  they  meet.  It  is 


A  BIOGRAPHY  201 

usually  in  a  future  state  only  that  they  find  each 
other.  Where  could  one  find  any  more  full-blown 
romance  ?  In  this  lif  e  these  two  souls  which  had  met 
could  never  be  united,  for  circumstances  had  destroyed 
the  possibility  for  them  of  true  union.  Even  if  S6nya 
had  still  been  free,  yet  she  had  been  married ;  and  he 
had  consecrated  himself  to  one  who  was  in  future  to 
be  his  only  love. 

Neither  did  Sonya  feel  it  right  to  belong  to  any  one 
but  her  husband,  for  the  bond  which  united  her  to  him 
had  not  been  entirely  dissolved.  They  still  wrote  to 
each  other  occasionally.  There  was  a  possibility  of 
their  meeting  again,  and  she  was  still  fond  of  him  in 
the  depths  of  her  heart. 

So  the  intercourse  between  her  and  the  Pole  was 
only  that  of  a  responsive  interchange  of  thought  and 
an  abstract  analyzing  of  feeling.  They  used  to  sit 
opposite  each  other  and  talk  on  without  stopping,  in- 
toxicating themselves  with  the  increasing  stream  of 
words  so  characteristic  of  the  Slavonic  race.  But  in 
the  midst  of  their  visionary  fervor,  Sonya  was  crushed 
by  a  great  misfortune. 

Her  husband  had  not  been  able  to  survive  the  dis- 
covery that  he  had  been  shamefully  cheated  and  had 
ruined  his  family.  This  highly  gifted  scientist,  so 
simple  and  unostentatious,  who  had  never  desired  the 
delights  which  wealth  can  bestow,  was  the  victim  of 
a  swindle,  in  circumstances  utterly  opposed  to  his 
character  and  the  tendencies  of  his  whole  life. 

The  news  of  his  death  stretched  S6nya  on  a  sick-bed. 
She  lay  for  a  long  time  suffering  from  a  dangerous 
nervous  fever.  She  rose  again  broken  in  spirit,  with 
the  feeling  that  an  irremediable  sorrow  had  drawn  a 
line  across  her  life. 

She  reproached  herself  deeply  for  not  having  re- 


202  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

mained  with  her  husband,  even  though  by  so  doing 
she  must  have  doomed  herself  to  an  almost  unbearable 
struggle.  She  grieved  bitterly,  with  the  sense  that 
now  nothing  could  be  helped. 

During  this  illness  she  lost  the  freshness  of  youth. 
She  lost  her  clear  complexion,  and  a  deep  furrow, 
nevermore  to  be  effaced,  was  drawn  by  care  across 
her  brow. 


VI 

FIRST  CALL  TO  SWEDEN 

DURING-  Sonya's  stay  in  St.  Petersburg  in  1876, 
she  had  made  an  acquaintance  which  was  to  have 
a  decisive  influence  on  her  future  life.  Mittag  Leffler, 
a  pupil  of  Weierstrass,  had  heard  a  great  deal  of 
Sonya's  unusual  talent  from  their  mutual  teacher,  and 
came  to  see  her. 

On  this  occasion  Sonya  had  no  premonition  of  the  in- 
fluence he  would  afterward  exert  on  her  life.  She  only 
felt  rather  unwilling  to  receive  her  visitor  when  he  was 
announced.  She  had  at  that  time  given  up  all  studies, 
and  did  not  even  correspond  with  her  former  master. 

During  conversation,  however,  her  former  interests 
were  aroused.  She  showed  so  much  acuteness  of 
judgment  and  quickness  of  perception  in  the  most 
difficult  mathematical  problems  that  her  visitor  felt 
almost  confounded  when  he  looked  at  the  girlish  face 
before  him.  The  impression  she  made  on  him  as  a 
woman-thinker  was  so  strong  that  several  years  later, 
when  he  became  Professor  of  Mathematics  in  the  new 
University  of  Stockholm,  one  of  his  first  steps  was  to 
induce  the  authorities  to  appoint  "  Fru "  Kovalevsky 
as  a  privat-docent. 

Sonya  already,  a  few  years  before  her  husband's 
death,  had  expressed  a  wish  to  become  a  teacher  at  a 
university.  Professor  Mittag  Leffler,  who  was  greatly 
interested  in  the  university  recently  established  in  his 

203 


204  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

native  town,  and  who  also  took  a  warm  interest  in  the 
woman  question,  was  eager  to  secure  for  his  university 
the  glory  of  attracting  to  it  the  first  great  woman- 
mathematician. 

As  early  as  1881  Sonya  wrote  to  Mittag  Leffler,  then 
at  Helsingfors,  the  following  letter : 

BELLEVUESTRASSE,  BERLIN,  July  8,  1881. 
I  thank  you  none  the  less  for  the  interest  you  take  in  my 
possible  appointment  to  Stockholm,  and  for  all  the  trouble 
you  are  giving  yourself  for  this  purpose.  I  can  assure  you  that 
if  it  were  offered  to  me,  I  should  gratefully  accept.  I  have 
never  looked  for  any  other  appointment  than  this,  and  I  will 
even  admit  that  I  should  feel  less  bashful  and  shy  if  I  were 
only  allowed  the  possibility  of  applying  my  knowledge  in  the 
higher  branches  of  education.  I  may  in  this  way  open  the  uni- 
versities to  women,  which  has  hitherto  only  been  possible  by 
special  favor — a  favor  which  can  be  denied  at  any  moment, 
as  has  recently  happened  in  the  German  universities.  Without 
being  rich,  I  have  still  the  means  of  living  independently.  The 
question  of  salary  is,  therefore,  of  no  importance  to  me  in  com- 
ing to  a  decision.  "What  I  wish,  above  all,  is  to  serve  the  cause 
in  which  I  take  so  great  an  interest ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  to 
be  able  to  live  for  my  work,  surrounded  by  those  who  are  occu- 
pied with  the  same  questions — a  piece  of  good  fortune  I  have 
never  enjoyed  in  Russia,  but  only  in  Berlin.  These,  dear  pro- 
fessor, are  my  personal  feelings  on  the  subject,  but  I  think  I 

ought  to  tell  you  even  more.     Professor  W believes  that, 

as  far  as  he  can  judge  of  Swedish  matters,  it  is  not  possible  for 
the  Stockholm  University  to  accept  a  woman  even  as  a  teacher. 
What  is  of  still  greater  importance,  he  is  afraid  that  if  you  in- 
sist on  introducing  such  novelties,  it  may  injure  your  own  posi- 
tion. It  would  be  selfish  on  my  part  if  I  did  not  let  you  know  the 
opinion  of  our  beloved  teacher.  And  you  can  easily  understand 
how  unhappy  I  should  be  if,  after  all,  I  injured  you,  who  have 
always  shown  so  much  interest  in  me,  and  helped  me  so  greatly ; 
you  for  whom  I  feel  such  sincere  friendship.  I  believe  it  would 
be  wiser,  therefore,  not  to  do  anything  at  present,  but  to  wait 
till  I  have  finished  the  papers  on  which  I  am  now  engaged.  If 
I  succeed  in  completing  them  as  well  as  I  intend  and  hope,  it 
would  in  every  way  help  toward  the  aim  I  have  in  view. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  205 

It  was  after  this  that  the  dramatic  episodes  in  S6nya's 
life  occurred :  the  separation  from  her  husband ;  the 
Polish  romance;  her  husband's  death,  and  her  long 
illness. 

All  this  delayed  the  completion  of  the  papers  men- 
tioned in  her  letter,  so  that  it  was  not  until  August, 
1883,  that  she  could  inform  Mittag  Leffler  that  the 
first  thesis  was  completed.  She  writes  to  him  from 
Odessa1  on  August  28,  1883: 

I  have  at  last  succeeded  in  finishing  one  of  the  two  works 
on  which  I  have  been  busy  during  the  last  two  years.  My  first 
wish,  as  soon  as  I  found  it  satisfactory,  was  to  let  you  know. 
But  Mr.  W ,  with  his  usual  kindness,  has  taken  that  trou- 
ble, letting  you  know  the  result  of  my  researches.  I  have  just 
received  a  letter  from  him,  saying  that  he  had  told  you  about 
it,  and  that  you  have  answered  him  with  your  usual  kindness, 
asking  me  to  go  to  Stockholm,  and  to  begin  there  a  course  of 
private  lessons!  I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am  to  you  for 
the  friendship  you  have  always  shown  me,  and  how  happy  I  am 
to  be  able  to  enter  a  career  which  has  ever  been  the  cherished 
object  of  my  desires.  At  the  same  time  I  feel  I  ought  to  tell 
you  that  in  many  respects  I  feel  but  little  fitted  for  the  duties 
of  "  decent,"  and  at  times  I  so  much  doubt  my  own  capacity  that 
I  feel  you,  who  have  always  judged  me  leniently,  will  be  quite 
disillusioned  when  you  find,  on  nearer  inspection,  how  little  I 
am  really  good  for.  I  am  truly  grateful  to  Stockholm,  which  is 
the  only  European  university  that  will  open  its  doors  to  me,  and 
I  am  already  prepared  to  be  in  love  with  that  city,  and  to  attach 
myself  to  Sweden  as  though  it  were  my  native  home.  I  hope 
that,  if  I  do  come  there,  it  will  be  to  find  a  new  "foster-land." 
But  just  because  of  this,  I  think  I  should  not  care  to  go  there 
before  I  feel  prepared  to  deserve  the  good  opinion  you  have  of 
me,  and  to  make  a  good  impression.  I  have  written  to-day  to 

W to  ask  whether  he  does  not  think  it  would  be  good  for 

me  to  spend  another  two  or  three  months  with  him,  in  order  to 
grasp  his  ideas  better,  and  to  fill  up  the  gaps  which  are  still  to 
be  found  in  my  mathematical  knowledge.  These  few  months  in 
Berlin  would  also  be  useful  to  me,  for  I  should  then  come  into 

1  Appendix  C. 


206  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

contact  with  young  mathematicians  just  beginning  their  career 
as  tutors,  and  many  of  whom  I  knew  pretty  well  during  my  last 
stay  in  Berlin.  I  could  even  arrange  with  them  that  we  should 
correspond  on  mathematical  subjects.  I  could  then,  no  doubt, 
expound  Abel's  "  Theory  of  Functions,"  which  they  do  not  know, 
and  which  I  have  studied  deeply.  This  would  give  some  oppor- 
tunity of  lecturing,  which,  up  to  this  time,  I  have  never  had. 
Then  I  should  arrive  in  Stockholm  much  more  sure  of  myself. 

This  plan  was  not  realized,  and  on  November  llth 
of  the  same  year  Sonya  left  St.  Petersburg  and  started 
for  Stockholm  via  Hango. 


VII 

ARRIVAL  IN   STOCKHOLM  —  FIRST  DEPRESSIONS 

AS  is  natural,  now  that  Sonya  is  dead,  my  first  meet- 
-LJL  ing  with  her  is  vividly  recalled  to  my  mind,  even 
in  its  most  minute  details.  She  arrived  from  Finland 
in  the  evening  by  boat,  and  came  as  a  guest  to  my 
brother  Lender's  house.  I  went  there  the  day  after 
her  arrival.  We  were  prepared  to  be  friends,  for  we 
had  heard  much  of  each  other,  and  were  eager  to  be- 
come acquainted.  Perhaps  she  had  expected  more 
from  the  meeting  than  I,  for  she  felt  a  great  interest 
in  that  which  was  my  special  aim  and  object.  I,  on  the 
other  hand,  rather  fancied  that  a  woman-mathematician 
would  prove  too  abstract  for  me. 

She  was  standing  in  the  window  when  I  arrived, 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book.  Before  she  could 
turn,  I  had  time  to  see  a  serious  and  marked  profile, 
rich  chestnut  hair  arranged  in  a  negligent  plait,  and 
a  spare  figure  with  a  certain  graceful  elegance  in  its 
pose,  but  not  well  proportioned,  for  the  bust  and 
upper  part  of  the  body  were  too  small  in  comparison 
with  the  large  head.  Her  mouth  was  large,  her  lips 
fresh  and  humid  and  most  expressive.  Her  hands 
were  small,  almost  like  a  child's ;  exquisitely  modeled, 
but  rather  spoiled  by  prominent  blue  veins.  Her  eyes 
were  the  most  remarkable  feature  of  her  face,  and  gave 
to  her  countenance  the  look  of  lofty  intellect  which  so 
greatly  impressed  all  who  observed  her.  Their  color 

207 


208  S6NYA  KOVAL^VSKY 

was  uncertain ;  they  varied  from  gray  to  green  and 
brown.  Unusually  large,  prominent,  and  luminous, 
they  had  an  intensity  of  expression  which  seemed  to 
pierce  the  farthest  corner  of  your  soul  when  she  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  you.  But  though  so  piercing  they  were 
soft  and  loving,  and  full  of  responsive  sympathy,  which 
seemed  to  woo  those  on  whom  their  magnetizing  power 
rested  to  tell  her  their  inmost  secrets.  So  great  was 
their  charm  that  one  scarcely  noticed  their  defect — 
Sonya  was  so  short-sighted  that  when  she  was  very 
tired  she  often  squinted. 

She  turned  to  me  with  a  quick  movement,  and  came 
across  the  room  to  greet  me  with  outstretched  hands. 
There  was  a  certain  shyness  about  her  which  made 
one  at  first  feel  rather  formal. 

Our  first  conversation  turned  on  the  bad  toothache 
she  had  unfortunately  suffered  from  during  the  voyage. 
I  offered  to  take  her  to  the  dentist.  A  pleasant  object, 
indeed,  for  her  first  walk  in  a  new  town !  She  was, 
however,  the  last  person  to  bestow  too  much  attention 
or  time  on  so  trivial  an  incident. 

I  was  at  that  moment  thinking  out  the  plot  of  my 
play  entitled  "How  to  Do  Good,"  but  had  not  yet 
written  it  down.  So  great  was  S6nya's  power  of  giv- 
ing an  impetus  to  one's  inner  thoughts  that,  before 
she  had  reached  the  dentist's,  I  had  told  her  the  whole 
play,  worked  out  in  far  greater  detail  and  breadth  than 
I  had  ever  been  conscious  of  intending. 

This  was  the  commencement  of  the  great  influence 
she  exercised  on  my  writings  afterward.  Her  power 
of  understanding  and  sympathizing  with  the  thoughts 
of  others  was  so  exceptional,  her  praise  when  she  was 
pleased  so  warm  and  enthusiastic,  her  criticism  so  just, 
that,  for  a  receptive  nature  like  mine,  it  was  impossible 
to  work  without  her  approbation. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  209 

If  she  criticized  unfavorably  anything  I  had  written, 
I  rewrote  it  until  she  was  pleased.  This  was  the  com- 
mencement of  our  collaboration.  She  used  to  say  that 
I  should  never  have  written  "  Ideal  Women  "  if  I  had 
not  done  so  before  her  arrival  in  Sweden.  This  work, 
and  my  novel,  "  At  War  with  Society,"  were  the  only 
books  of  mine  that  she  disliked.  She  disapproved  of 
Bertha's  struggle  to  try  and  secure  the  remnant  of 
her  mother's  fortune,  for  she  considered  that  when  a 
woman  has  once  given  herself  to  a  man,  she  must  not 
for  a  moment  hesitate  to  sacrifice  her  fortune  to  the 
very  last  farthing  if  he  needs  it.  This  criticism  was 
so  like  her ;  she  was  always  so  subjective  in  her  judg- 
ments of  literary  produce.  If  the  thought  and  feeling 
in  a  book  were  in  accordance  with  her  own  sympathies, 
she  was  prone  to  value  it  highly,  even  if  it  was  only 
mediocre.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  it  contained  any 
opinion  in  which  she  did  not  share,  she  would  not 
admit  that  the  book  had  any  merit  at  all. 

In  spite  of  this  prejudice,  she  was  as  broad  in  her 
views  as  the  most  highly  gifted  individuals  of  her  age. 
Of  the  prejudices  and  conventionalities  of  ordinary 
mortals  she  had  not  a  trace.  Her  comprehensive 
genius  and  her  high  culture  raised  her  far  above  the 
boundaries  with  which  tradition  limits  most  minds. 

Limitations  she  found,  but  only  in  the  strong  in- 
dividuality of  her  nature,  the  pronounced  sympathies 
and  antipathies  of  which  withstood  both  logic  and 
discussion. 

On  this  first  occasion  we  did  not  see  much  of  each 
other,  and  our  acquaintance  did  not  deepen  into  friend- 
ship, for  within  a  month  of  her  arrival  I  went  abroad 
for  some  time.  Before  that,  however,  she  had  learned 
enough  Swedish  to  read  my  books.  Immediately  after 

her  arrival  she  began  to  take  lessons  in  that  language, 
H 


210  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

and  for  the  first  week  she  really  did  nothing  but  study 
it  from  morning  till  night. 

My  brother,  as  soon  as  she  arrived,  told  her  that  he 
wanted  to  give  a  soiree  in  order  to  introduce  her  to  all 
his  scientific  friends.  But  she  begged  him  to  wait 
until  she  could  speak  Swedish.  This  seemed  to  us 
rather  optimistic,  but  she  kept  her  word.  In  a  fort- 
night she  could  speak  a  little,  and  during  the  first 
winter  she  had  mastered  our  literature,  and  had  read 
the  "Frithiofs  Saga"1  with  delight. 

This  unusual  talent  for  languages  had  its  limitations. 
She  used  to  say  that  she  had  no  real  talent  that  way, 
and  had  only  learned  several  languages  from  necessity 
and  ambition.  It  is  quite  true  that,  notwithstanding 
the  quick  results  she  jobtained  when  she  first  learned 
a  language,  she  never  acquired  it  to  perfection,  and 
always  forgot  one  language  as  soon  as  she  learned 
another.  Though  she  was  in  Germany  when  quite  a 
young  girl,  she  spoke  the  language  very  brokenly,  and 
her  German  friends  used  to  laugh  at  the  ridiculous  and 
often  impossible  words  she  coined.  She  never  allowed 
herself  to  be  stopped  in  the  flow  of  her  conversation  by 
any  such  minor  considerations  as  the  correct  choice  of 
words.  She  always  spoke  fluently,  always  succeeded 
in  expressing  what  she  wanted  to  say,  and  in  giving 
an  individual  stamp  to  her  utterances,  however  imper- 
fectly she  spoke  the  language  she  was  using.  When 
she  had  learned  Swedish  she  had  nearly  forgotten  all 
her  German,  and  when  she  had  been  away  from  Sweden 
a  few  months,  she  spoke  Swedish  very  badly  on  her 
return.  One  of  her  characteristics  was  that  when 
tired  or  depressed  she  had  great  difficulty  in  finding 
words;  but  when  in  good  spirits  she  spoke  rapidly 
and  with  great  elegance.  Language,  like  everything 
1  Appendix  D. 


A  BIOGEAPHY  211 

else  with  her,  was  under  the  influence  of  her  personal 
moods. 

During  the  last  autumn  of  her  life,  when  she  returned 
from  Italy, — where  she  spent  a  couple  of  weeks,  and 
fell  in  love  with  that  country,  as  every  one  who  goes 
there  does, — she  spoke  Italian  fairly ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  she  spoke  Swedish  very  badly,  because  she  was 
out  of  harmony  with  Sweden. 

French  was  the  foreign  language  she  spoke  best, 
though  she  did  not  write  it  quite  correctly.  It  was 
said  that  in  Russian  her  style  showed  a  certain  foreign 
influence. 

She  often  complained  that  she  could  not  speak 
Russian  with  her  intimate  friends  in  Sweden.  She 
used  to  say,  "I  can  never  quite  express  the  delicate 
nuances  of  thought.  I  have  always  to  content  myself 
with  the  next  best  expression,  or  say  what  I  want  to 
say  in  a  roundabout  way.  I  never  find  the  exact  ex- 
pressions. That  is  why,  when  I  return  to  Russia,  I  feel 
released  from  the  prison  in  which  my  best  thoughts 
were  in  bondage.  You  cannot  think  what  suffering  it 
is  to  have  to  speak  always  a  foreign  language  to  your 
friends.  You  might  as  well  wear  a  mask  on  your 
face." 

In  February,  1884,  I  went  to  London,  and  did  not 
meet  Sonya  again  till  the  following  October.  While 
in  London  I  had  only  one  letter  from  her.  In  it  she 
describes  her  winter  at  Stockholm.  The  letter  has  no 
date,  but  it  was  evidently  written  in  April,  and,  like 
the  former  letters  quoted,  was  in  French. 

What  shall  I  tell  you  about  our  life  in  Stockholm?  [she  says]. 
If  it  has  not  been  very  inlialtsreich,  it  has  at  least  been  very 
lively,  and  lately  very  tiring.  Suppers,  dinners,  soirees,  and  re- 
ceptions have  succeeded  one  another,  and  it  has  been  difficult  to 
find  time  to  go  to  all  these  parties,  and  also  to  prepare  mean- 


212  SCNYA  KOVALEVSKY 

time  my  lectures,  or  to  work.  To-day  we  have  suspended  our 
lectures  for  the  Easter  fortnight,  and  I  am  as  happy  as  a  school- 
girl at  the  prospect  of  a  holiday.  The  1st  of  May  is  not  far 
distant,  and  then  I  hope  to  go  to  Berlin  via  St.  Petersburg.  My 
plans  for  next  winter  are  still  undecided,  as  they  do  not  depend 
upon  me.  As  you  can  easily  imagine,  people  talk  constantly 
about  you.  Every  one  wants  to  hear  about  you.  Your  letters 
are  read,  commented  upon,  and  make  quite  a  sensation.  The 
leading  ladies  of  Stockholm  seem  to  have  very  few  subjects  of 
conversation,  and  it  is  really  a  charity  to  give  them  something 
to  talk  about.  I  enjoy  beforehand  the  effect  of  your  play  when 
it  is  put  on  the  stage  next  autumn. 

In  April  Sonya  finished  her  course  of  lectures  and 
left  for  Russia.  She  writes  as  follows  to  Mittag 

Leffler : 

EUSSIA,  April  29,  1884. 

...  It  seems  a  century  since  I  left  Stockholm.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  express  or  to  show  all  the  gratitude  and  friend- 
ship I  feel  for  you.  It  is  as  if  I  had  found  in  Sweden  a  new 
foster-land  and  family  at  the  moment  when  I  most  needed 
them.  .  .  . 

The  course  of  lectures  Sonya  had  given  that  year 
in  German  at  the  University  of  Stockholm  was  quite 
private.  The  lectures  had  raised  her  greatly  in  public 
estimation,  and  Mittag  Leffler  was  enabled  to  collect 
privately  the  funds  necessary  to  give  her  an  official 
appointment,  which  was  to  last,  in  the  first  instance, 
for  five  years.  Several  persons  bound  themselves  to 
pay  a  lump  sum  of  about  £112  a  year.  The  University 
gave  about  the  same  sum,  so  that  S6nya  had  £225  a 
year.  Her  pecuniary  position  was  such  that  she  could 
no  longer  give  her  work  gratis,  as  she  had  at  first 
generously  offered  to  do.  But  it  was  not  only  the 
pecuniary  question  which  had  raised  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  her  official  appointment. 

The  conservative  opposition  which  actually  arose  on 
many  sides  against  the  employment  of  a  woman  as  a 


A  BIOGRAPHY  213 

university  professor  had  to  be  overcome.  No  other 
university  had  set  the  example.  The  funds  might 
possibly  have  been  found  to  furnish  a  life-appoint- 
ment, but  the  considerations  urged  against  such  an 
appointment  appearing  to  be  insurmountable,  Profes- 
sor Leffler  decided  to  postpone  the  attempt  till  a  more 
convenient  season.  At  the  end  of  the  first  five  years  he 
succeeded  in  obtaining  for  Sonya  a  life-appointment, 
which  she  enjoyed  just  one  year. 

On  July  1,  1884,  Mittag  Leffler  had  the  pleasure  of 
telegraphing  to  Sonya,  who  was  then  in  Berlin,  that 
she  had  been  appointed  professor  for  five  years.  She 
answered  the  same  day  in  the  following  terms : 

BERLIN,  July  1,  1884. 

...  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  your  and  Ugglases'  tele- 
grams have  filled  my  heart  with  joy.  I  may  now  confess  that 
up  to  the  last  moment  I  believed  and  feared  that  the  matter 
could  not  be  carried  through.  I  thought  that  at  the  critical 
moment  some  unexpected  difficulty  would  arise,  and  that  all  our 
plans  would  come  to  nothing.  I  am  also  sure  that  it  is  only 
owing  to  your  perseverance  and  energy  that  we  have  been  able 
to  attain  our  end.  I  now  wish  that  I  may  now  have  the  strength 
and  capacity  requisite  for  my  duties,  and  to  help  you  in  all  your 
undertakings.  I  firmly  believe  in  my  future,  and  shall  be  glad 
to  work  with  you.  What  joy  and  happiness  it  is  that  we 
met!  .  .  . 

Further  on  she  says : 

W has  spoken  to  several  officials  here  about  my  wish  to 

attend  lectures.  It  is  possible  that  the  thing  may  be  arranged, 
but  not  this  summer,  as  the  present  Rector  is  a  decided  op- 
ponent of  woman's  rights.  I  hope,  however,  it  may  be  arranged 
by  December,  when  I  return  to  spend  my  Christmas  holidays 
here. 

The  University  of  Stockholm  had  already  appointed 
Fru  Kovalevsky  professor,  while  in  Germany  it  was 
still  impossible  for  her,  as  a  woman,  to  attend  even 
lectures. 

14* 


214  S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

Another  person  might  have  been  somewhat  per- 
turbed by  the  uncertainty  of  the  appointment  she  now 
accepted.  But  the  future  never  harassed  Sonya.  If 
the  present  were  satisfactory,  that  was  all  she  required. 
She  was  ready  at  any  moment  to  sacrifice  a  brilliant 
future  if  by  doing  so  she  could  secure  a  happier  and 
fuller  present. 

Before  going  to  Berlin,  Sonya  had  paid  a  visit  to 
her  little  daughter,  who  was  living  with  the  friend  of 
Sonya's  youth  in  Moscow.  Thence  she  wrote  a  letter 
to  Mittag  Leffler,  which  may  be  taken  as  an  exposition 
of  her  ideas  of  a  mother's  duty,  and  which  describes 
the  conflict  between  her  duties  as  a  mother  and  as  an 
official  personage,  as  a  woman  and  as  a  bread-winner : 

Moscow,  June  3,  1884. 

I  have  had  a  long  letter  from  J ,  in  which  she  expresses 

a  warm  wish  that  I  should  bring  my  little  girl  with  me  to  Stock- 
holm. But,  in  spite  of  all  the  considerations  which  might  in- 
cline me  to  have  my  little  S6nya  with  me,  I  have  almost  decided 
to  let  her  spend  another  winter  in  Moscow.  I  do  not  think  it 
would  be  in  the  child's  interest  to  take  her  away  from  this  place, 
where  she  is  well  cared  for,  and  to  carry  her  back  with  me  to 
Stockholm,  where  nothing  is  prepared  for  her,  and  where  I  shall 
have  to  devote  my  whole  time  and  energy  to  my  new  duties. 

J says,  among  other  things,  that  many  people  will  accuse 

me  of  indifference  to  my  child.  I  suppose  that  is  quite  possible, 
but  I  confess  that  I  do  not  care  in  the  least  for  that  argument. 
I  am  quite  willing  to  submit  to  the  judgment  of  the  Stockholm 
ladies  in  all  that  has  to  do  with  the  minor  details  of  life ;  but  in 
serious  questions,  especially  when  I  do  not  act  in  my  own  inter- 
ests, but  in  those  of  my  child,  I  consider  it  would  be  unpardon- 
able weakness  on  my  part  were  I  to  let  the  shadow  of  a  wish  to 
play  the  part  of  a  good  mother  in  the  eyes  of  Stockholm  petti- 
coats influence  me  in  the  least. 

On  her  return  to  Sweden,  in  September,  Sonya  went 
to  Sodertelje  for  a  few  weeks,  in  order  to  finish  in  peace 
the  work  commenced  long  before,  "  The  Transmission 


A  BIOGRAPHY  215 

of  Light  through  a  Crystalline  Medium."  Mittag 
Leffler  and  a  young  German  mathematician,  whose 
acquaintance  Sonya  had  made  at  Berlin  during  the 
summer,  were  with  her  at  Sodertelje,  and  the  young 
mathematician  assisted  her  by  correcting  her  German. 

On  my  first  visit  to  her  on  my  return  from  England, 
I  was  astonished  to  find  her  looking  younger  and 
handsomer.  I  at  first  thought  it  was  the  effect  of 
her  having  left  off  her  mourning,  for  black  was  very 
unbecoming  to  her,  and  she  herself  hated  it.  The 
light-blue  summer  dress  she  was  now  wearing  made 
her  complexion  look  brighter,  and  she  also  wore  her 
rich  chestnut  hair  in  curls.  But  it  was  not  only 
her  outward  appearance  which  was  changed.  I  soon 
noticed  that  the  melancholy  which  had  enveloped  her 
during  her  former  sojourn  in  Stockholm  had  given 
place  to  sparkling  gaiety,  a  side  of  her  character  which 
I  now  for  the  first  time  learned  to  know.  She  was  in 
such  a  gay  mood,  sparkling  with  joy,  dancing  with  life ; 
a  half  satirical,  half  good-natured  shower  of  wit  sur- 
rounded her.  One  daring  paradox  followed  another, 
and  it  was  well  for  any  one  not  quick  at  repartee  to 
keep  silence  on  such  occasions,  for  she  did  not  give 
people  much  chance  of  retort. 

She  was  at  this  time  occupied  with  preparing  her 
lectures  for  the  new  term.  These  she  read  to  the 
young  German,  saying  jestingly  that  he  must  be  her 
"  pointer-dog,"  a  role  which  had  usually  been  filled  by 
Mittag  Leffler. 

Sonya's  bright  mood  lasted  through  the  autumn. 
She  led  a  social  lif e,  and  was  everywhere  the  center  of 
a  magic  circle.  The  strong  satirical  vein  in  her  char- 
acter and  the  deep  contempt  she  felt  for  mediocrity 
(she  belonged  to  the  aristocracy  of  the  intellectual 
world,  and  worshiped  genius)  were,  in  her,  wedded  to 


216  SONYA  KOVAL^VSKY 

a  poet's  ready  sympathy  with  all  human  conflict  and 
trouble,  even  the  least  important. 

This  caused  her  to  take  a  lively  interest  in  everything 
that  concerned  her  friends.  All  the  domestic  worries 
of  her  married  friends  were  confided  to  her,  and  young 
girls  asked  her  advice  about  their  dress.  The  usual 
verdict  passed  upon  her  by  those  who  knew  her  was 
that  she  was  as  simple  and  unpretentious  as  a  school- 
girl, and  in  no  way  thought  herself  above  other  women. 

But,  as  I  have  already  said,  this  was  not  a  true 
estimate  of  her  character,  just  as  the  impression  of 
frankness  and  affability  given  by  her  manners  was  a 
delusion.  She  was  in  reality  reserved,  and  she  con- 
sidered few  people  her  equals.  But  the  mobility  of 
her  nature  and  intelligence,  the  wish  to  please,  and  the 
psychological  interest  she  took  in  all  human  things, 
gave  her  the  sympathetic  manner  which  charmed  all 
who  saw  her.  She  seldom  displayed  her  sarcastic  vein 
to  her  inferiors  unless  they  were  really  uncongenial  to 
her.  But  she  used  it  freely  among  those  whom  she 
looked  upon  as  her  equals. 

Meanwhile  it  did  not  take  her  long  to  exhaust  the 
social  interest  in  Stockholm.  After  a  time  she  said  she 
knew  every  one  by  heart,  and  longed  for  fresh  stimulus 
for  her  intelligence.  This  was  a  great  misfortune  to 
her,  and  accounts  for  the  fact  that  she  could  not  be 
happy  in  Stockholm,  or,  perhaps,  in  any  place  in  the 
world.  She  was  continually  in  want  of  stimulus.  She 
desired  dramatic  interests  in  life,  and  was  ever  hunger- 
ing for  high- wrought  mental  delights.  She  hated  with 
all  her  heart  the  gray  monotony  of  every-day  life. 

Bohemian  by  nature,  as  she  often  called  herself, 
she  hated  everything  covered  by  the  expression  bour- 
geois. She  herself  attributed  this  trait  in  her  char- 
acter to  her  descent  from  a  gipsy  woman  who,  I  believe, 


A  BIOGRAPHY  217 

married  her  father's  grandfather — a  marriage  by  which 
that  gentleman  forfeited  his  title  of  "prince,"  then 
possessed  by  the  family.1 

All  this  was  not  only  a  peculiarity  of  temperament 
in  Sonya,  but  underlay  her  intellectual  nature.  Her 
talents  were  of  the  productive  order,  and  at  the  same 
time  she  was  very  receptive  by  nature,  and  required 
stimulus  from  the  genius  of  others  in  order  to  do  pro- 
ductive work  herself. 

This  is  the  reason  why  her  whole  scientific  career  was 
occupied  solely  with  the  development  of  the  ideas  of 
her  great  teacher. 

In  literature  she  required  intercourse  with  persons 
similarly  occupied. 

With  such  a  principle  underlying  her  whole  char- 
acter and  intelligence,  it  was  only  natural  that  life  in 
such  a  small  town  as  Stockholm  should  be  altogether 
monotonous  to  her.  She  could  only  really  live  in  the 
great  European  capitals.  There  she  found  the  mental 
stimulus  she  needed. 

She  spent  the  Christmas  of  1884  in  Berlin.  On  her 
return  thence  she  made  use,  for  the  first  time,  of  the 
expression  she  afterward  used  every  year,  and  which 
so  wounded  and  hurt  her  friends.  "  The  road  from 
Stockholm  to  Malmo,"  she  said,  "is  the  most  beauti- 
ful line  I  have  ever  seen ;  but  the  road  from  Malmo  to 
Stockholm  is  the  ugliest,  dullest,  and  most  tiresome  I 
have  ever  known." 

My  heart  bleeds  when  I  think  how  often,  with  an 
ever-growing  bitterness  in  her  heart,  she  had  to  take 
that  journey,  which  at  last  brought  her  to  an  early 
grave. 

A  letter  to  my  brother,  written  from  Berlin  during 
that  Christmas,  shows  how  deeply  melancholic  her 

1  Appendix  E. 


218  SCNYA  KOVALEVSKY 

mood  really  was,  despite  all  outward  show  of  cheerful- 
ness. Her  friends  have  told  me  how  much  happier 
and  full  of  the  love  of  life  she  was  during  that  Christ- 
mas— more  so  than  ever  before.  She  regretted  that 
during  her  real  youth  she  had  neglected  youth's  plea- 
sures, and  she  now  wanted  to  avenge  herself,  and  began 
to  take  lessons  in  dancing  and  skating.  She  did  not 
wish  to  expose  her  first  awkward  attempts  at  skating, 
so  one  of  her  friends  and  admirers  arranged  a  private 
skating-ground  for  her  in  the  garden  of  one  of  the 
Berlin  villas.  Her  lessons  in  dancing  were  also  taken 
in  a  similarly  private  fashion,  with  two  admirers  as 
cavaliers. 

She  rushed  from  one  entertainment  to  another,  and 
was  much  feted — an  experience  she  always  enjoyed. 

But  this  happy  mood  was  short-lived.  A  month 
later  it  had  been  chased  away  by  the  news  of  her 
sister's  illness,  and  by  a  love-affair,  which,  as  usual 
with  her,  took  no  happy  turn.  It  caused  her  supreme 
bliss,  and  also  the  melancholy  which  ensued. 

She  writes  on  December  27,  1884 : 

I  feel  in  very  low  spirits.  I  have  had  very  bad  news  from  my 
sister.  Her  illness  makes  terrible  progress,  and  now  it  is  her 
sight  which  is  affected.  She  can  neither  read  nor  write.  This 
is  caused  by  the  faulty  action  of  her  heart,  which  gives  rise  to 
temporary  stagnations  of  the  blood  and  paralysis.  I  tremble  at 
the  thought  of  the  loss  which  awaits  me  in  the  near  future. 
How  sad  life  is  after  all !  and  how  dull  it  is  to  go  on  living !  It 
is  my  birthday,1  and  I  am  thirty-one  to-day,  and  I  may  perhaps 
have  as  many  years  still  to  live  !  How  beautiful  it  is  in  operas 
and  dramas  !  As  soon  as  any  one  has  found  out  that  life  is  not 
worth  living,  some  one  or  something  comes  on  the  scene  and 
helps  to  make  the  passage  to  the  other  world  easy.  Keality  is 
in  this  detail  inferior  to  fiction.  One  speaks  so  much  of  the  per- 
fection of  the  organisms  so  fully  developed  by  living  creatures 

1  This  is  a  fiction,  for  it  was  neither  her  birthday,  nor  was  she 
the  age  mentioned.  (See  Introduction J 


A  BIOGRAPHY  219 

through  the  process  of  natural  selection.  I  find  that  the  highest 
perfection  would  be  the  power  to  die  quickly  and  easily.  From 
this  standpoint  humanity  has  decidedly  retrograded.  Insects 
and  the  lower  animals  can  never  choose  to  die.  An  articulated 
animal  can  suffer  unheard-of  tortures  without  ceasing  to  exist. 
But  the  higher  you  rise  in  the  animal  scale  the  easier  is  the 
transit.  In  a  bird,  a  wild  animal,  a  lion,  or  a  tiger,  almost 
every  illness  is  fatal.  They  have  either  the  full  enjoyment  of 
life — or  else  death,  but  no  suffering.  Man  has  reapproached 
the  insect.  Many  of  my  acquaintances  make  me  involuntarily 
think  of  insects  with  wings  torn  off,  the  different  segments  of 
their  bodies  crushed,  or  their  legs  and  feet  injured.  Yet,  poor 
things,  they  cannot  decide  to  die.  Forgive  me  for  writing  to 
you  in  such  low  spirits.  I  am  really  in  a  very  gloomy  mood.  I 
feel  no  desire  to  work.  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  settle  down 
to  prepare  my  lectures  for  the  next  term.  But  I  have  pondered 
much  over  the  following  problem.  [And  here  a  mathematical 
proposition  is  given.] 

From  the  same  letter  I  quote  again : 

I  have  received  from  your  sister,  as  a  Christmas  present,  an 
article  by  Strindberg,  in  which  he  proves,  as  decidedly  as  that 
two  and  two  make  four,  what  a  monstrosity  is  a  woman  who  is 
a  professor  of  mathematics,  and  how  unnecessary,  injurious,  and 
out  of  place  she  is.  I  think  he  is  right  au  fond,  only  I  wish  he 
would  prove  clearly  that  there  were  plenty  of  mathematicians  in 
Sweden  better  than  I  am,  and  that  it  was  only  galanterie  which 
made  them  select  me  ! 


VIII 

PASTIMES 

A  MONG  the  crowd  of  skaters  who  that  winter  fre- 
-^-  quented  the  Nybroviken  and  the  royal  skating- 
ground  at  Skeppsholm,  a  little  lady,  clad  in  a  tight- 
fitting,  fur-trimmed  costume,  her  hands  tucked  into  a 
muff,  might  be  daily  seen  trying,  with  small,  uncertain 
steps,  to  move  along  on  her  skates.  She  was  accom- 
panied by  a  tall  gentleman  wearing  spectacles,  and  a 
tall,  slight  lady,  and  none  of  them  seemed  very  steady 
on  their  feet. 

While  practising  they  kept  up  a  lively  conversation, 
and  sometimes  the  gentleman  would  draw  a  geometrical 
figure  on  the  ice ;  not,  indeed,  with  his  skates, — not 
being  dexterous  enough  for  that, — but  with  his  stick. 
The  little  lady  would  then  instantly  pause  and  study 
the  figure  intently.  The  two  had  come  together  from 
the  University  to  the  skating-ground,  and  were  gener- 
ally engaged  in  hot  discussion  arising  from  a  lecture 
which  one  or  the  other  had  just  given,  a  discussion 
which  was  usually  continued  after  reaching  the  ground. 

Sometimes  the  little  lady  would  cry  mercy,  and  beg 
to  be  excused  from  talking  mathematics  while  skating, 
as  it  made  her  lose  her  balance.  At  another  time  she 
and  the  tall  lady  would  engage  in  talk  on  psychological 
topics,  or  communicate  to  each  other  some  plot  for  a 
novel  or  drama.  They  also  argued  and  sparred  about 
their  respective  proficiency  in  the  art  of  skating.  In 

220 


A  BIOGRAPHY  221 

any  other  occupation  they  willingly  admitted  each 
other's  superiority,  but  not  in  this. 

Any  one  who  met  Madame  Kovalevsky  in  society  that 
winter  would  have  imagined  she  was  a  very  proficient 
skater — one  who  might  have  carried  off  the  prize  in  a 
tournament  with  the  greatest  ease.  She  spoke  of  the 
sport  with  great  eagerness  and  interest,  and  was  very 
proud  of  the  smallest  progress  she  made,  though  she 
had  never  shown  any  such  vanity  about  the  works 
which  had  brought  her  world-wide  renown. 

Even  in  the  riding-school  she  and  her  tall  companion 
might  often  be  seen  that  winter,  and  it  was  evident 
they  took  great  interest  in  each  other's  accomplish- 
ments. The  celebrated  Madame  Kovalevsky  was  natu- 
rally much  noticed  wherever  she  made  her  appearance, 
but  no  little  school-girl  could  have  behaved  more  child- 
ishly than  she  did  at  such  riding  or  skating  lessons. 
Her  taste  for  such  sports  was  not  supported  by  the 
least  facility  for  them.  She  was  scarcely  in  the  saddle, 
for  instance,  when  she  was  overcome  with  fear.  She 
would  scream  if  her  horse  made  the  least  unexpected 
movement.  She  always  begged  for  the  quietest  and 
soberest  animal  in  the  stables.  But  she  would  after- 
ward explain  why  that  day's  riding-lesson  had  been  a 
failure,  alleging  either  that  the  horse  had  been  fidgety 
or  wild,  or  that  the  saddle  had  been  uncomfortable. 
She  never  got  beyond  a  ten-minutes'  trot,  and  if  the 
horse  broke  into  a  good  pace,  she  would  call  to  the 
riding-master  in  broken  Swedish,  "Please,  good  man, 
make  the  horse  stop  ! " 

She  bore  with  great  amiability  all  the  teasing  of  her 
friends  on  this  account,  but  when  she  talked  to  other 
people  about  the  matter,  they  easily  went  off  with  the 
idea  that  she  was  an  accomplished  horsewoman  who 
could  boldly  ride  the  wildest  animal  at  a  gallop.  All 


222  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

this  was  no  boasting;  she  thoroughly  believed  in  it. 
She  always  intended  to  do  something  wonderful  each 
time  she  went  to  the  riding-school,  and  was  continually 
proposing  riding-tours.  Her  explanation  of  her  over- 
whelming fear  when  once  mounted  was  that  it  was  not 
really  fright,  only  she  was  very  nervous,  which  made 
her  sensitive  to  every  noise,  so  that  the  tramping  of 
the  other  horses  upset  her  composure.  Her  friends 
often  could  not  resist  asking  her  what  kind  of  noise 
it  was  that,  when  out  walking,  made  her  jump  over 
hedges  and  ditches  to  avoid  a  harmless  cow,  or  run 
away  from  a  dog  that  merely  sniffed  at  her. 

She  describes  this  kind  of  cowardice  very  well  in  an 
otherwise  great  character  in  her  posthumous  novel, 
"  Vera  Vorontzoff  " : 

In  the  learned  circle  in  which  he  lived  no  one  would  have 
dreamed  of  suspecting  him  of  cowardice.  On  the  contrary,  all 
his  colleagues  dreaded  lest  his  courage  should  lead  him  into 
difficulties.  In  his  own  heart  he  knew  himself  to  be  far  from 
courageous.  But  in  his  day-dreams  he  loved  to  imagine  himself 
among  the  most  dangerous  circumstances.  More  than  once,  in 
the  silence  of  his  quiet  study,  he  had  fancied  himself  defending 
a  barricade.  In  spite  of  this,  he  kept  at  a  respectful  distance 
from  village  curs,  and  declined  to  make  any  near  acquaintance 
with  horned  cattle. 

S6nya  perhaps  exaggerated  her  fear  out  of  coquetry. 
She  possessed  to  a  high  degree  that  feminine  grace  so 
highly  appreciated  by  men.  She  loved  to  be  protected. 

To  a  quite  masculine  energy  and  genius,  and,  in 
some  ways,  an  inflexible  character,  she  united  a  very 
feminine  helplessness.  She  never  learned  her  way 
about  Stockholm.  She  only  knew  perfectly  a  few 
streets — those  which  led  to  the  University  or  to  the 
houses  of  her  intimate  friends.  She  could  look  neither 
after  her  money  matters,  her  house,  nor  her  child.  The 
latter  she  was  obliged  to  leave  in  the  care  of  others.  In 


A  BIOGEAPHY  223 

fact,  she  was  so  impractical  that  all  the  minor  details 
of  life  were  a  burden  to  her.  When  she  was  obliged 
to  seek  work  that  paid,  to  apply  to  an  editor  or  get 
introductions,  she  was  incapable  of  looking  after  her 
own  interests.  But  she  never  failed  to  find  some  de- 
voted friend  who  made  her  interest  his  own,  and  on 
whom  she  could  throw  all  the  burden  of  her  affairs. 

At  every  railway-station  where  she  stopped  on  her 
many  journeys,  some  one  was  always  waiting  to  receive 
her,  to  procure  rooms  for  her,  to  show  her  the  way,  or 
to  place  his  services  at  her  disposal.  It  was  such  a  de- 
light to  her  to  be  thus  assisted  and  cared  for  in  trifles 
that,  as  I  said  before,  she  rather  liked  to  exaggerate 
her  fears  and  helplessness.  Notwithstanding  all  this, 
there  was  never  a  woman  who,  in  the  deepest  sense  of 
the  word,  could  be  more  independent  of  others  than 
she. 

In  a  letter  written  in  German  to  the  admirer  who 
had  taught  her  to  dance  and  skate,  Sonya  describes 
her  life  in  Stockholm  during  the  winter  of  1884—85  : 

STOCKHOLM,  April,  1885. 

DEAR  MR.  H :  I  am  ashamed  that  I  have  not  answered 

your  kind  letter  sooner.  My  only  excuse  is  the  multifarious 
occupations  which  have  filled  up  my  time.  I  will  tell  you  all  I 
have  been  doing.  To  begin  with,  there  are  my  lectures  three 
times  a  week  in  Sicedish.  I  read  and  study  the  algebraic  intro- 
duction to  Abel's  "Functions,"  and  in  Germany  these  lectures 
are  supposed  to  be  the  most  difficult.  I  have  a  pretty  large 
number  of  students,  all  of  whom  I  retain,  with  the  exception  of, 
at  most,  two  or  three  who  have  withdrawn.  Secondly,  I  have 
been  writing  a  short  mathematical  treatise,  which  I  shall  send 
to  Weierstrass  immediately,  asking  him  to  get  it  published  in 
Borcliardfs  Journal.  Thirdly,  I  and  Mittag  Leffler  have  begun 
a  large  mathematical  work.  We  hope  to  get  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure  and  fame  out  of  it — this  is  a  secret  at  present,  so  do 
not  yet  mention  it.  Fourthly,  I  have  made  the  acquaintance  of 
a  very  pleasant  man,  who  has  recently  returned  to  Stockholm 


224  S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

from  America.  He  is  the  editor  of  the  largest  Swedish  news- 
paper. He  has  made  me  promise  to  write  something  for  his 
paper,  and,  as  you  know,1  /  can  never  see  my  friends  at  work 
without  wishing  to  do  exactly  what  they  are  doing,  so  I  have  written 
a  number  of  short  articles  2  for  him.  For  the  moment  I  have 
only  one  of  these  personal  reminiscences  ready,  but  I  send  it 
to  you,  as  you  understand  Swedish  so  well.  Fifthly  (last,  not 
least),  can  you  really  believe,  unlikely  as  it  sounds,  that  I  have 
developed  into  an  accomplished  skater !  At  the  end  of  last 
week  I  was  on  the  ice  every  day.  I  am  so  sorry  you  cannot  see 
how  well  I  managed  in  the  end.  Whenever  I  have  gained  a 
little  extra  dexterity  I  have  thought  of  you.  And  now  I  can 
even  skate  a  little  backward ! !  But  I  can  go  forward  with  great 
facility  and  assurance ! !  All  my  friends  here  are  astonished 
how  quickly  I  have  mastered  the  difficult  art.  In  order  to  con- 
sole myself  a  little,  now  that  the  ice  has  disappeared,  I  have 
taken  furiously  to  riding  with  my  friends.  In  the  few  weeks  of 
the  Easter  holidays  I  intend  to  ride  at  least  an  hour  every  day. 
I  like  riding  very  much.  I  really  don't  know  which  I  like  best, 
skating  or  riding.  But  this  is  by  no  means  the  end  of  all  my 
frivolities.  There  is  to  be  a  great  fete  on  April  15th.  It  is  a 
kind  of  fair  or  bazaar,  and  seems  to  be  a  very  Swedish  affair. 
A  hundred  of  us  ladies  will  dress  in  costume  and  sell  all  sorts 
of  things  for  the  benefit  of  the  Public  Museum.  I  am,  of  course, 
going  to  be  a  gipsy,  and  equally  of  course  a  great  guy.  I  have 
asked  five  other  young  ladies  to  share  my  fate  and  help  me. 
We  are  to  be  a  gipsy  troupe,  with  tents,  and  our  marshalkar,3 
also  in  the  costume  of  gipsy  youths,  to  attend  on  us.  We  are 
likewise  to  have  a  Eussian  samovar,  and  to  serve  tea  from  it. 

Now  what  do  you  say  to  all  this  nonsense,  dear  Mr.  H ? 

This  evening  I  am  going  to  have  a  grand  party  in  my  own  little 
room,  the  first  I  have  given  since  I  have  been  in  Stockholm. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  there  was  a  suggestion 
made  that  Sonya  should  lecture  on  mechanics  during 
the  illness  of  Professor  Holmgren. 

1  The  italics  have  been  added  by  the  friend  who  sends  the 
letter. 

2  She  had  in  reality  written  only  one  of  the  articles,  but  in  her 
vivid  imagination  what  she  intended  doing  was  already  done. 

3  Appendix  F. 


A  BIOGKAPHY  225 

She  wrote  on  this  subject  to  Professor  Mittag 
Leffler : 

STOCKHOLM,  June  3d. 

I  have  been  to  Lindhagen,  who  told  me  that  the  authorities 
of  the  University  are  of  opinion  that  I  ought  to  be  Professor 
Holmgren's  substitute.  But  they  do  not  wish  this  mentioned, 
as  it  might  have  a  bad  effect  on  Holmgren.  He  is  really  very 
ill,  but  does  not  yet  seem  to  realize  the  fact.  I  replied  to  Lind- 
hagen that  I  felt  that  this  was  quite  fair,  and  that  I  am  satisfied 
to  know  that  the  authorities  think  I  should  be  Holmgren's  locum 
tenets  in  case  he  is  not  able  to  give  his  autumn  lectures.  But 
if,  contrary  to  present  expectations,  he  should  have  recovered 
before  then,  I  should  be  so  pleased  with  the  happy  turn  of 
events  that  I  should  not  regret  the  work  I  should  thus  have 
missed.  I  am  much  pleased,  my  dear  friend,  that  things  have 
turned  out  so  well,  and  I  shall  do  my  best  to  make  my  lectures 
as  good  as  possible.  Stories  with  a  moral  are  always  tiresome 
in  books,  but  they  are  very  encouraging  and  edifying  when  they 
occur  in  real  life ;  so  I  am  doubly  pleased  that  my  motto,  pas 
trop  fle  zele,  has  been  refuted  in  so  brilliant  and  unexpected  a 
manner.  I  do  hope  you  will  have  no  reason  to  reproach  me 
with  losing  courage.  You  must  never  forget,  dear  friend,  that 
I  am  Russian.  When  a  Swedish  woman  is  tired  or  in  a  bad 
humor  she  is  silent  and  sulky.  Of  course  the  ill  humor  strikes 
inward  and  becomes  a  chronic  complaint.  A  Eussian  bemoans 
and  bewails  herself  so  much  that  it  affects  her  mentally  as  a 
catarrh  affects  her  physically.  For  the  rest  I  must  say  that  I 
only  bemoan  and  bewail  when  I  am  slightly  unhappy.  When  I 
am  in  great  distress,  then  I  too  am  silent.  No  one  can  perceive 
my  distress.  I  may  sometimes  have  reproached  you  with  being 
too  optimistic,  but  I  would  not  have  you  cure  yourself  of  this  on 
any  account.  The  fault  suits  you  to  perfection,  and,  besides, 
the  most  striking  proof  of  your  optimism  is  the  good  opinion 
you  have  of  me.  You  can  easily  understand  that  I  should  like 
you  to  be  right  in  this  detail. 

Shortly  after  this  Sonya  went  to  Russia  to  spend  the 
summer,  partly  in  St.  Petersburg  with  her  invalid 
sister,  and  partly  in  the  environs  of  Moscow  with  her 
friend  and  her  little  girl. 

I  here  quote  from  a  few  letters  written  thence. 


226  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

They  are  not  very  full  of  interest,  as  she  was  not  fond 
of  writing.  Our  correspondence,  therefore,  was  not 
lively,  but  her  letters  always  contained  fragments  of 
her  life-history.  They  are  often,  even  in  their  brevity, 
characteristic  of  the  mood  which  possessed  her  while 
writing  them.  They  are  thus  of  much  value  in  de- 
picting her  character. 

I  was  in  Switzerland  with  my  brother,  and  had  in- 
vited her  to  meet  us  there,  when  I  received  the  follow- 
ing letter : 

MY  DEAR  ANNA  CARLOTTA:  I  have  just  received  your  kind 
letter.  You  cannot  imagine  how  I  should  like  to  start  at  once 
to  meet  you  and  your  brother  in  Switzerland,  and  go  on  a  walk- 
ing-tour with  you  to  the  highest  parts  of  the  Alps.  I  have  a 
sufficiently  lively  imagination  to  picture  to  myself  how  charming 
this  would  be.  What  happy  weeks  we  would  spend  together  ! 
Unfortunately  I  am  kept  here  by  a  whole  string  of  reasons,  the 
one  more  stupid  and  tiresome  than  the  other.  To  begin  with,  I 
have  promised  to  stay  here  till  August  1st ;  and  though  I  am,  in 
principle,  of  the  opinion  that  "man  is  master  of  his  word,"  the 
old  prejudices  are  so  strong  in  me  that  I  always  return  to  them 
when  I  have  a  chance  of  realizing  my  theories.  Instead  of  the 
master,  I  also  am  the  slave  of  my  word.  Besides,  there  are  a 
whole  host  of  things  which  keep  me  here.  Your  brother  (who 
knows  me  aufond  and  judges  me  rightly — only  you  must  not 
tell  him  so,  for  fear  of  flattering  his  vanity  too  much)  has  often 
said  that  I  am  very  impressionable,  and  that  it  is  always  the 
duties  and  impressions  of  the  moment  which  determine  my 
actions.  In  Stockholm,  where  every  one  treats  me  as  the 
champion  of  the  woman  question,  I  begin  to  think  it  is  my  most 
important  obligation  to  develop  and  cultivate  my  "  genius."  But 
I  must  humbly  admit  that  here  I  am  always  introduced  to  new 
acquaintances  as  Fouzi's  Mama,1  and  you  cannot  imagine  what 
an  effect  this  has  in  diminishing  my  vanity.  It  calls  forth  in 
me  a  perfect  crop  of  genuine  virtues,  which  spring  up  like  mush- 
rooms, and  of  which  you  would  never  suppose  me  capable.  Add 

1  S6nya  was  staying  at  this  time  near  Moscow  with  the  friend 
who  had  charge  of  her  little  girl. 


A  BIOGEAPHY  227 

to  this  the  heat  which  softens  my  brain,  and  you  can  then  pic- 
ture what  I  am  like  at  this  moment.  In  a  word,  the  result  is 
that  all  the  small  influences  and  forces  which  dominate  your 
poor  friend  are  strong  enough  to  keep  me  here  till  August  1st. 
The  only  thing  I  can  hope  for  is  to  meet  you  in  Normandy,  and 
to  go  on  with  your  brother  to  Aberdeen.  Write  soon  to  me, 
dear  Anna  Carlotta.  How  happy  you  are  !  You  cannot  imagine 
how  I  envy  you.  Do  at  least  write  to  me.  I  shall  do  my  best  to 
join  you  in  Normandy.  Bien  a  toi. 

SONYA. 

As  usual,  there  is  no  date  to  her  letters,  but  at 
about  the  same  time  she  wrote  to  my  brother : 

CHER  MONSIEUR  :  I  have  received  your  kind  letter,  No.  8,  and 
I  hasten  to  answer  though  I  have  little  or  nothing  to  tell  you ; 
our  life  is  monotonous  to  that  degree  that  I  lose  the  power, 
not  only  of  working,  but  of  caring  for  anything.  I  feel  that  if 
this  lasts  much  longer  I  shall  become  a  vegetable.  It  is  really 
curious,  the  less  you  have  to  do  the  less  you  are  able  to  work. 
Here  I  do  absolutely  nothing.  I  sit  all  day  long  with  my  em- 
broidery in  my  hand,  but  without  an  idea  in  my  head.  The 
heat  begins  to  be  stifling.  After  the  rain  we  had  at  first,  the 
summer  has  set  in  quite  hot  —  a  regular  Russian  summer.  You 
could  boil  eggs  in  the  shade  ! 

To  her  friend  Mr.  H ,  in  Berlin,  she  also  writes 

an  amusing  account  of  her  life  that  summer : 

I  am  now  staying  with  my  friend  Julia  L ,  on  a  small  estate 

of  hers  in  the  neighborhood  of  Moscow.  I  have  found  my  daugh- 
ter bright  and  well.  I  do  not  know  which  of  us  has  been  the 
happiest  in  the  reunion.  We  are  not  going  to  be  separated  any 
more,  for  I  am  going  to  take  her  back  with  me  to  Stockholm. 
She  is  nearly  six,  and  is  a  very  sensible  child  for  her  age.  Every 
one  thinks  she  is  like  me,  and  I  really  think  she  is  like  what  I 
was  in  my  childhood.  My  friend  is  very  depressed ;  she  has  just 
lost  her  only  sister,  so  it  is  rather  dull  and  dismal  just  now  in 
this  house.  Our  circle  of  acquaintances  consists  entirely  of  old 
ladies.  Four  old  maids  live  with  us ;  and  as  they  all  go  about 
in  deep  mourning,  our  house  seems  almost  like  a  convent.  We 
also  eat  a  great  deal,  as  people  do  in  convents ;  and  four  times  a 
day  we  drink  tea,  with  all  sorts  of  jams,  sweetmeats,  and  cakes 


228  S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

— which  helps  us  to  get  through  the  time  nicely.  I  try  to  make 
a  little  diversion  in  other  ways.  For  instance,  one  day  I  asked 
Julia  to  drive  with  me  to  the  next  village  without  the  coachman, 
persuading  her  that  I  could  drive  beautifully.  We  arrived  safely 
at  our  destination.  But  coming  home  the  horses  shied,  came  in 
collision  with  a  tree,  and  we  were  thrown  into  a  ditch !  Poor 
Julia  injured  her  foot,  but  I,  the  criminal,  escaped  unhurt  from 
the  adventure. 

A  little  later  Sonya  wrote  to  the  same  friend : 

Our  life  here  continues  to  be  so  monotonous  that  I  have  noth- 
ing to  say  beyond  thanking  you  for  your  letter.  I  have  not  even 
thrown  any  one  out  of  a  carriage  lately,  and  life  flows  tranquilly 
as  the  water  in  the  pond  which  adorns  our  garden,  while  my 
brain  seems  to  stand  still.  I  sit  with  my  work  in  my  hand  and 
absolutely  think  of  nothing. 

In  connection  with  this,  it  is  worth  while  referring 
to  the  extraordinary  power  Sonya  had  of  being  com- 
pletely idle  when  not  engaged  in  her  special  work. 
She  often  said  she  was  never  half  so  happy  as  during 
these  periods  of  entire  laziness,  when  it  was  an  effort 
to  rise  from  the  chair  into  which  she  had  sunk.  At 
such  times  the  most  trivial  novel,  the  most  mechanical 
needlework,  a  few  cigarettes,  and  some  tea,  were  all 
she  required.  It  was  probably  very  lucky  for  her  that 
she  had  this  capacity  for  reaction  against  excessive 
brain- work  and  the  increasing  mental  excitement  to 
which  she  surrendered  herself  between  whiles.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  result  of  her  Russo-German  lineage, 
each  race  by  turns  getting  the  upper  hand  and  caus- 
ing these  sudden  changes.  Nothing  came  of  all  her 
projected  travels.  Sonya  spent  that  whole  summer 
in  Russia,  and  it  was  not  until  September  that  we  met 
in  Stockholm. 


IX 

CHANGING  MOODS 

DURING  the  following  winter  the  sentimental  ele- 
ment began  to  play  a  great  part  in  Sonya's  life. 
She  found  nothing  to  satisfy  and  interest  her  in  her 
social  surroundings.  She  was  not  engaged  on  any 
special  literary  work.  Her  lectures  failed  to  interest 
her  much.  Under  these  circumstances  she  was  very 
often  apt  to  become  too  retrospective,  brooded  over 
her  destiny,  and  felt  bitterly  that  life  had  not  afforded 
her  what  she  most  desired. 

She  no  longer  preached  of  "twin  souls,"  or  of  a 
single  love  which  would  rule  her  whole  life,  but,  in- 
stead, dreamed  of  a  union  between  man  and  wife  in 
which  the  intelligence  of  the  one  was  to  complement 
that  of  the  other,  so  that  together  only  could  they 
realize  the  full  development  of  their  genius. 

"  Laboring  together  in  love  "  was  now  her  ideal,  and 
she  dreamed  of  finding  a  man  who  could,  in  this  sense, 
become  her  second  self.  The  certainty  that  she  could 
never  find  that  man  in  Sweden  was  the  real  origin  of 
the  dislike  which  she  now  took  to  this  country — the 
land  to  which  she  had  come  with  such  hope  and  ex- 
pectation. This  idea  of  collaboration  was  based  on  her 
secret  craving  to  be  in  spiritual  partnership  with  an- 
other human  being,  and  on  the  real  suffering  caused  by 
her  intellectual  isolation.  Scarcely  could  she  endure 

15*  229 


230  S6NYA  KOVAL£VSKY 

to  work  without  having  close  to  her  some  one  who 
breathed  the  same  mental  atmosphere  as  herself. 

Work  in  itself — the  absolute  search  after  scientific 
truth — did  not  satisfy  her.  She  longed  to  be  under- 
stood, met  half-way,  admired  and  encouraged  at  every 
step  she  took.  As  each  new  idea  sprang  up  in  her 
brain,  she  longed  to  convey  it  to  some  one  else,  to  en- 
rich with  it  another  human  being.  It  was  not  only 
humanity  in  the  abstract,  but  some  definite  human 
being,  that  she  required — some  one  who  in  return 
would  share  with  her  a  creation  of  his  own. 

Mathematician  as  she  was,  abstractions  were  not  for 
her,  for  she  was  intensely  personal  in  all  her  thoughts 
and  judgments. 

Mittag  Leffler  often  told  her  that  her  love  of  and 
desire  for  sympathy  was  a  feminine  weakness.  Men 
of  great  genius  had  never  been  dependent  in  this  way 
on  others.  But  she  asserted  the  contrary,  enumerating 
a  number  of  instances  in  which  men  had  found  their 
best  inspiration  in  their  love  for  a  woman.  Most  of 
these  were  poets,  and  among  scientists  it  was  more 
difficult  to  prove  her  statement ;  but  Sonya  was  never 
short  of  arguments  to  demonstrate  her  propositions. 
When  she  had  no  real  facts  to  go  upon,  she  would, 
with  great  facility,  construct  suppositions.  It  is  true 
that  she  succeeded  in  quoting  several  instances  going 
to  prove  that  a  feeling  of  great  isolation  had  been  the 
cause  of  intense  suffering  to  all  profound  minds.  She 
pointed  out  how  great  was  the  curse  of  feeling  deeply ; 
how  hurtful  the  loneliness  of  isolation  to  man,  whose 
highest  happiness  it  is  to  merge  his  own  in  another's 
welfare. 

I  remember  that  the  spring  of  1886  was  a  specially 
trying  one  for  S6nya.  The  awakening  of  nature — the 
restlessness  and  growth  which  she  has  depicted  so 


A  BIOGRAPHY  231 

vividly  in  "Vae  Victis,"  and  later  in  "Vera  Voront- 
zoff"1 — exercised  a  strong  influence  upon  her,  and 
made  her  restless  and  nervous,  full  of  longing  and 
impatience. 

The  light  summer  nights,  so  dear  to  me,  only  en- 
ervated Sonya.  "  The  everlasting  sunshine  seems  to 
promise  so  much,"  she  would  say,  "but  fails  to  fulfil 
the  promise.  Earth  remains  cold — development  is 
retarded  just  when  it  has  commenced.  The  summer 
seems  like  a  mil-age — a  will-o'-the-wisp  which  you  can- 
not overtake.  The  fact  that  the  long  days  and  light 
nights  begin  so  long  before  full  summer  comes  is  all 
the  more  irritable  because  they  seem  to  promise  a  joy 
they  can  never  fulfil." 

Sonya  could  not  work,  but  she  maintained  with  more 
and  more  eagerness  that  work — especially  scientific 
work — was  no  good;  it  could  neither  afford  pleasure 
nor  cause  humanity  to  progress.  It  was  folly  to  waste 
one's  youth  on  work,  and  especially  was  it  unfortunate 
for  a  woman  to  be  scientifically  gifted,  for  she  was 
thus  drawn  into  a  sphere  which  could  never  afford  her 
happiness. 

As  soon  as  the  term  ended  that  year,  Sonya  hastened 
on  "the  short  and  beautiful  journey  from  Stockholm" 
to  Malmo,  and  thence  to  the  Continent.  She  went  to 
Paris,  and  wrote  thence  only  one  letter  to  me.  Con- 
trary to  her  custom,  it  is  dated. 

142  BOULEVARD  D'ENFER,  June  26,  1886. 
DEAR  ANNA  CARLOTTA  :  I  have  just  received  your  letter.  I 
reproach  myself  very  much  that  I  have  not  written  to  you  before. 
I  am  ready  to  admit  that  I  was  a  little  jealous,  and  thought  you 
no  longer  cared  for  me.  I  have  only  time  for  a  few  lines — if  my 
letter  is  to  be  in  time  for  to-day's  post — to  tell  you  that  you 
are  quite  wrong  in  reproaching  me  for  forgetting  you  when  I 

1  Appendix  G. 


232  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

am  away.  I  have  never  felt  so  much  how  I  love  you  and  your 
brother.  Every  time  I  am  pleased  I  unconsciously  think  of  you. 
I  enjoy  myself  very  much  in  Paris.  Mathematicians  and  others 
make  much  of  me  [font  grand  cas  de  moi],  but  I  long  intensely  to 
see  a  truant  brother  and  sister  who  are  quite  indispensable  to 
my  life.  I  cannot  leave  this  before  July  5th,  and  cannot  get  to 
Christiania  in  time  for  the  National  Science  Congress.1  Can  you 
meet  me  [in  Copenhagen]  so  that  we  may  go  home  together? 
Please  reply  at  once.  I  have  taken  your  book 2  to  Jonas  Lie. 
He  speaks  of  you  very  kindly.  He  has  returned  my  call,  but 
had  not  yet  read  your  book.  He  also  thinks  you  have  more  tal- 
ent for  novel-writing  than  for  the  drama.  I  hope  to  see  Jonas 
Lie  once  more  before  I  leave.  I  send  you  my  love  and  long  to 
see  you  again,  my  dear  Anna  Carlotta.  Tout  d,  toi. 

S6NYA. 

As  usual,  S6nya  could  not  tear  herself  away  from 
Paris  till  the  last  minute.  She  arrived  at  Copenhagen 
on  the  last  day  of  the  Congress.  I  was  accustomed  to 
her  sudden  changes  of  mood,  but  this  time  the  contrast 
was  amazing  between  the  mood  she  was  now  in  and  that 
which  had  ruled  her  during  the  whole  of  the  spring, 
when  she  was  in  Stockholm. 

She  had  been  in  Paris  together  with  Poincare  and 
other  mathematicians.  While  in  conversation  with 
them  she  had  felt  a  desire  awaken  within  her  to  oc- 
cupy herself  with  problems  the  solution  of  which  was 
to  bring  her  the  highest  fame,  and  to  gain  for  her  the 
highest  prize  of  the  French  Academy  of  Science. 

It  now  seemed  to  her  that  nothing  was  worth  living 
for  but  science.  Everything  else — personal  happiness, 
love,  and  love  of  nature,  day-dreaming — all  was  vain. 
The  search  after  scientific  truth  was  now  to  her  the 
highest  and  most  desirable  of  things.  Interchange  of 

1  We  had  intended  to  meet  in  Norway  and  spend  the  rest  of 
the  summer  together. 

2  "A  Summer  Saga." 


A  BIOGRAPHY  233 

ideas  with  her  intellectual  peers,  apart  from  any  per- 
sonal tie,  was  the  loftiest  of  all  intercourse.  The  joy 
of  creation  was  upon  her,  and  now  she  entered  into 
one  of  those  brilliant  periods  of  hers,  when  she  was 
handsome,  full  of  genius,  sparkling  with  wit  and 
humor. 

She  arrived  at  Christiania  at  night,  after  three  days' 
voyage  from  Havre.  She  had  been  very  seasick  all 
the  time,  but  this  did  not  prevent  her — indefatigable 
as  she  always  was  when  in  good  spirits — from  joining 
the  next  day  in  a  fete  and  picnic  which  lasted  far  into 
the  night.  All  the  most  distinguished  men  present 
thronged  around  her,  and  she  was  always  on  such 
occasions  most  amiable  and  unassuming ;  so  girlishly 
soft  in  her  manner  that  she  took  every  one  by  storm. 

We  afterward  made  a  trip  together  through  Tele- 
mark,  where  we  visited  Ulman's  Peasant  High  School, 
in  which  Sonya  became  warmly  interested.  It  was 
this  visit  that  gave  rise  to  the  article  on  "  Peasant  High 
Schools  "  which  she  published  in  a  Russian  magazine. 
The  success  of  the  article  was  so  great  that  there  fol- 
lowed a  large  increase  in  the  number  of  subscribers  to 
the  journal. 

From  Sitijord  we  climbed  a  mountain  on  foot,  and 
it  was  certainly  the  first  time  that  Sonya  had  ever 
performed  such  a  feat.  She  was  very  brisk  and  inde- 
fatigable in  climbing,  and  delighted  in  the  beauty  of 
nature.  She  was  full  of  joy  and  energy,  her  pleasure 
being  only  now  and  then  marred  by  fear  of  a  cow  near 
one  of  the  cheese-dairies,  or  by  having  to  surmount 
n  heap  of  stones  which  rattled  down  under  our  feet, 
when  she  uttered  little  childish  shrieks  and  exclama- 
tions which  much  amused  the  rest  of  the  party.  She 
had  a  great  appreciation  of  nature  in  so  far  as  her 
imagination  and  feelings  were  stirred  by  its  poetry,  by 


234  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

the  spirit  of  the  scenery,  and  its  light  and  shadow. 
But  as  she  was  very  near-sighted,  and  objected,  out  of 
feminine  vanity,  to  wearing  spectacles,  the  traditional 
mark  of  the  student,  she  never  could  see  any  details  of 
the  landscape,  and  certainly  would  not  have  been  able 
to  tell  what  sort  of  trees  were  growing,  or  of  what 
material  the  houses  she  passed  were  built,  etc.  Not- 
withstanding this,  in  some  of  her  works  already  men- 
tioned she  succeeds  not  only  in  giving  the  spirit  of 
the  scenery, — its  soul,  so  to  say, — but  also  exact  and 
delicate  descriptions  of  purely  material  details.  This 
arose,  not  from  her  own  observation,  but  from  purely 
theoretical  knowledge.  She  had  a  very  sound  know- 
ledge of  natural  history.  She  had  helped  her  hus- 
band to  translate  Brehm's  "Birds,"  and,  as  already 
mentioned,  had  studied  paleontology  and  geology 
with  him,  and  had  been  personally  acquainted  with 
the  most  eminent  natural  scientists  of  our  time. 

But  she  was  not  a  very  minute  observer  when  it  con- 
cerned the  small,  commonplace  phenomena  of  nature. 
She  had  no  love  of  detail,  and  did  not  possess  a  finely 
cultivated  sense  of  beauty.  The  most  unattractive 
landscape  might  be  beautiful  in  her  eyes  if  it  suited 
her  mood,  and  she  could  be  indifferent  to  the  most 
exquisite  outlines  and  colors  if  she  were  personally  out 
of  sympathy  with  the  scene. 

It  was  the  same  with  the  personal  appearance  of 
people.  She  was  utterly  devoid  of  all  appreciation  of 
purity  of  outline,  harmony,  proportion,  complexion, 
and  other  outward  expressions  of  beauty.  People  with 
whom  she  was  in  sympathy,  and  who  possessed  some 
of  the  external  qualities  she  admired — these  she  con- 
sidered beautiful,  and  all  others  plain.  A  fair  person, 
man  or  woman,  she  could  easily  admire,  but  not  a 
dark  person. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  235 

In  this  connection  I  cannot  help  mentioning  the  ab- 
sence of  all  artistic  appreciation  in  a  nature  otherwise 
so  richly  gifted.  She  had  spent  years  of  her  life 
in  Paris,  but  had  never  visited  the  Louvre.  Neither 
pictures,  sculptures,  nor  architecture  ever  attracted  her 
attention. 

In  spite  of  this,  she  was  much  pleased  with  Norway, 
and  liked  the  people  we  met.  We  had  intended  to 
continue  our  trip  in  a  carriole  through  the  whole  of 
Telemark,  over  Hankeli  Fjall,  and  thence  down  to  the 
west  coast,  where  we  meant  to  visit  Alexander  Kiel- 
land  on  the  Jadern.  But  although  Sonya  had  long 
dreamed  about  this  journey,  pleased  with  the  idea,  and 
though  she  had  for  some  time  desired  to  make  Kiel- 
land's  acquaintance,  another  voice  was  now  so  strong 
within  her  that  she  could  not  resist  it.  So  while  we 
were  on  a  steamer  in  one  of  the  long,  narrow  lakes 
which  run  up  into  Telemark,  and  which  resemble 
fiords  cut  off  from  the  sea,  she  suddenly  decided  to 
go  back  to  Christiania  and  Sweden,  and  settle  down 
quietly  in  the  country  to  work.  She  left  me,  stepped 
into  another  steamer,  and  was  taken  by  it  back  to 
Christiauia  by  way  of  Skien. 

I  could  not  remonstrate  with  her,  nor  did  I  blame 
her.  I  knew  well  that  when  once  the  spirit  of  cre- 
ation makes  itself  heard,  its  dictates  must  be  obeyed. 
Everything  else,  however  otherwise  attractive,  becomes 
indifferent  and  unimportant.  One  is  deaf  and  blind  to 
one's  surroundings,  and  one  listens  only  to  the  inner 
voice — which  calls  more  loudly  than  the  roaring  water- 
fall, or  the  hurricane  at  sea.  Sonya's  departure  was, 
of  course,  a  great  disappointment  to  me.  I  continued 
the  journey  with  a  chance  companion;  visited  Kiel- 
land  ;  returned  via  Ostland,  and  took  part  in  a  fete  at 
a  peasant  high  school  which  would  certainly  have 


236  S6NYA   KOVAIJfiVSKY 

pleased  Sonya  as  much  as  it  did  me,  had  she  had 
spiritual  freedom  to  join  in  it. 

I  had  several  times  noticed  the  following  trait  in 
her :  she  might  be  engaged  in  the  most  lively  conver- 
sation at  a  picnic  or  party,  and  apparently  be  entirely 
occupied  by  her  surroundings,  when  suddenly  a  silence 
would  fall  upon  her.  Her  look  at  such  times  became 
distant,  and  her  replies,  when  addressed,  wandering. 
She  would  suddenly  say  farewell,  and  no  persuasions, 
no  previous  plans  or  arrangements,  no  consideration 
for  other  people,  could  detain  her.  Go  home  and 
work  she  must.  I  have  a  note  from  her,  written  in 
the  spring  of  the  year,  which  is  characteristic  of  her  in 
this  connection. 

We  had  arranged  a  driving-expedition  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Stockholm  with  a  few  other  friends,  when 
she  repented  at  the  last  moment,  and  sent  me  the  fol- 
lowing note:1 

DEAR  ANNA  CARLOTTA  :  This  morning  I  awoke  with  the  de- 
sire to  amuse  myself,  when  suddenly  my  mother's  father,  the 
German  pedant  (that  is  to  say,  the  astronomer),  appeared  before 
me.  He  pointed  menacingly  at  all  the  learned  treatises  and  dis- 
sertations which  I  had  intended  studying  in  the  Easter  holidays, 
and  reproached  me  most  seriously  with  my  unworthy  waste  of 
time.  His  severe  words  have  also  at  other  times  put  to  flight  in 
me  my  grandmother  the  gipsy.  Now  I  sit  at  my  writing-table  in 
dressing-gown  and  slippers,  deeply  immersed  in  mathematical 
speculations,  and  I  have  not  the  slightest  desire  to  join  your 
picnic.  You  are  so  merry  that  you  can  amuse  yourselves  just 
as  well  without  me,  so  I  hope  you  will  enjoy  yourselves  and 
pardon  my  ignoble  desertion. 

Yours  affectionately, 

S6NYA. 

There  had  been  an  arrangement  that  we  should 
meet  again  in  Jamtland  later  in  the  summer,  where 

1  This  note  is  written  in  Swedish,  as  are  all  the  other  letters 
which  follow  and  are  not  otherwise  indicated. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  237 

Sonya  was  staying  with  my  brother's  family.  But 
scarcely  had  I  arrived  there  before  Sonya  had  to 
leave.  She  was  called  away  by  a  telegram  from  her 
sister  in  Russia,  who  had  a  new  and  serious  attack  of 
illness. 

When  Sonya  returned  again  in  September,  she 
brought  her  little  daughter,  now  eight  years  old,  with 
her.  For  the  first  time  she  now  li ved  in  an  apartment 
of  her  own  in  Stockholm.  She  was  tired  of  boarding- 
houses.  She  was  certainly  most  indifferent  to  any 
kind  of  comfort  and  domestic  conveniences,  and  did 
not  care  what  furniture  she  had,  nor  what  food  she 
ate.  But,  at  the  same  time,  she  greatly  wanted  to  be 
independent  and  master  of  her  own  time.  She  could 
no  longer  put  up  with  the  many  ties  which  living  with 
others  always  entails.  So  she  got  her  friends  to  help 
her  to  choose  a  house  and  a  housekeeper,  who  would 
also  look  after  the  child.  She  bought  some  furniture 
in  the  town,  and  ordered  the  remainder  from  Russia. 
She  thus  made  a  home  for  herself,  which,  however, 
retained  the  appearance  of  a  temporary  arrangement 
that  might  be  upset  at  any  moment. 

The  furniture  sent  from  Russia  was  very  charac- 
teristic. It  came  from  her  parents'  home,  and  had  the 
old  aristocratic  look  about  it.  It  had  occupied  a  large 
drawing-room,  and  consisted  in  a  long  sofa,  which  took 
up  a  whole  wall ;  a  corner  sofa  of  the  old  pattern,  with 
floral  decorations ;  and  a  deep  arm-chair.  It  was  all  of 
rich  carved  mahogany,  upholstered  in  bright-red  silk 
damask,  now  old  and  tattered.  The  stuffing  was  also 
spoiled,  and  many  of  the  springs  broken.  It  was  al- 
ways Sonya's  intention  to  have  this  furniture  repaired, 
newly  polished,  and  newly  upholstered ;  but  this  was 
never  done,  partly  because,  with  Sonya's  bringing  up, 
tattered  furniture  in  a  drawing-room  was  nothing 


238  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

astonishing,1  and  partly  because  she  never  felt  suffi- 
cient interest  in  Stockholm  to  have  things  put  to 
rights,  feeling  sure  that  her  home  there  was  but  a 
half-way  house,  and  she  need  not  therefore  trouble  to 
spend  money  on  it. 

Sometimes,  when  she  was  in  good  spirits,  a  sudden 
frenzy  would  seize  her,  and  she  would  amuse  herself 
by  ornamenting  her  small  rooms  with  her  own  needle- 
work. 

One  day  she  sent  me  the  following  note : 

ANNA  CARLOTTA  !  Yesterday  evening  I  had  a  pleasant  proof 
that  the  critics  are  right  who  maintain  that  you  have  eyes  for  the 
bad  and  ugly,  but  not  for  the  good  and  beautiful.  Each  stain, 
each  scratch,  on  one  of  my  old  venerable  chairs,  even  if  hidden 
by  ten  antimacassars,  is  very  certain  to  be  discovered  and  de- 
nounced by  you.  But  my  really  lovely  new  rocking-chair  cushion, 
which  was  in  evidence  the  whole  evening,  and  which  endeavored 
to  draw  your  attention  to  itself,  was  not  honored  by  you  with 
even  a  single  glance  ! 

Your  S6NYA. 

1  It  may  be  remembered  that  in  her  childhood's  home  the 
nursery  was  papered  with  newspapers. 


HOW  IT  WAS,  AND  HOW  IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

SCARCELY  had  Sonya  got  her  possessions  into 
some  kind  of  order  in  her  quaint  ramshackle  lodg- 
ings than  she  was  again  summoned  to  Russia.  She  had 
to  go  in  midwinter  by  sea  to  Helsingfors,  and  thence 
by  rail  to  St.  Petersburg,  in  order  to  reach  her  ailing 
sister,  who  continued  to  hover  betwixt  life  and  death. 
On  such  occasions  Sonya  was  never  frightened,  nor 
was  she  to  be  deterred  by  any  difficulty.  She  was 
tenderly  devoted  to  her  sister,  and  always  ready  to  sac- 
rifice herself  for  her  sake.  She  now  left  her  little  girl 
in  my  care  during  her  absence  of  two  winter  months. 
In  that  time  I  only  received  one  letter  from  her, 
which  is  of  no  interest  beyond  the  fact  that  it  shows 
how  sad  her  Christmas  holidays  were  that  year. 

ST.  PETERSBURG,  December  18,  1886. 

DEAR  ANNA  CARLOTTA:  I  arrived  here  yesterday  evening. 
To-day  I  can  scarcely  write  these  few  words  to  you.  My  sister 
is  fearfully  ill,  though  the  doctor  thinks  her  better  than  she  was 
some  days  ago.  A  long,  wearing  illness  like  this  is  truly  one  of 
the  most  terrible  trials  possible.  She  suffers  untold  agonies,  and 
can  hardly  sleep  or  even  breathe.  ...  I  do  not  know  how  long 
I  shall  remain  here.  I  long  so  much  for  Fouzi  [her  child],  and 
also  for  my  work.  My  journey  was  very  trying  and  wearisome. 
Loving  messages  to  you  all. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

S6NYA. 

During  the  long  days  and  nights  that  Sonya  passed 
by  her  sister's  sick-bed,  many  thoughts  and  fantasies 

239 


240  S6NYA  KOVALEVSKY 

naturally  filled  her  mind.  Then  it  was  that  she  began 
to  ponder  on  the  difference  of  "  how  it  was,  and  how 
it  might  have  been."  She  remembered  with  what 
dreams,  what  infatuations,  she  and  her  sister  had 
commenced  life,  young,  handsome,  and  richly  en- 
dowed as  they  both  were.  She  realized  how  little 
had  been  given  of  all  that  they  had  pictured  to  them- 
selves in  their  day-dreams.  Life  had,  indeed,  been  to 
them  rich  and  varied,  but  in  the  depths  of  both  their 
hearts  was  a  bitter  feeling  of  disappointment. 

Ah,  how  utterly  different,  would  Sonya  say  to  her- 
self, might  it  not  have  been  had  they  not  both  of  them 
committed  mistakes !  From  these  thoughts  was  bred 
the  idea  of  writing  two  parallel  romances  which  should 
depict  the  history  of  a  human  being  in  two  different 
ways.  Early  youth,  with  all  its  possibilities,  should  be 
described,  and  a  series  of  pictures  followed  up  to  some 
important  event.  The  one  romance  was  to  show  the 
consequence  of  the  choice  made  at  the  critical  moment, 
and  the  other  romance  was  to  figure  "  what  might  have 
been  "  had  that  choice  been  different.  "  Who  is  there 
who  has  not  some  false  step  to  regret,"  soliloquized 
Sonya,  "and  who  has  not  often  wished  to  begin  life 
anew  ? " 

She  wished,  in  this  work,  to  give  the  reality  of  life 
in  a  literary  form,  if  only  she  had  talent  enough  to 
produce  it.  She  did  not  then  know  that  she  possessed 
the  power  of  writing.  So  when  she  returned  to  Stock- 
holm she  tried  to  persuade  me  to  undertake  the 
romance.  At  that  time  I  had  begun  a  book  called 
"  Utomkringaktenskap,"  which  was  to  be  the  history  of 
old  maids;  of  those  who,  for  one  reason  or  another, 
had  never  been  called  upon  to  become  the  head  of  a 
family.  Their  thoughts,  their  ideas  of  love  and  mar- 
riage, the  interests  and  struggles  of  their  lives,  were 


A  BIOGRAPHY  241 

to  be  described.  In  a  word,  it  was  to  be  the  romance 
of  women  who  are  commonly  believed  to  have  no 
romance  at  all — a  sort  of  counterpart  to  "  Mandvolk" 
("Men"),  in  which  Garborg  tells  how  bachelors  live. 
I  wished  to  describe  the  life  of  the  lonely  women  of 
my  time.  I  had  collected  materials  and  types,  and 
was  much  interested  in  my  design. 

Then  Sonya  appeared  with  her  idea,  and  so  great 
was  her  influence  upon  me,  so  great  her  power  of  per- 
suasion, that  I  forsook  my  own  child  in  order  to  adopt 
hers.  A  few  letters  I  wrote  to  a  mutual  friend  at  this 
time  will  best  describe  the  hot  enthusiasm  with  which 
this  new  project  had  inspired  both  Sonya  and  myself. 

February  2,  1887. 

I  am  now  writing  a  new  novel,  entitled  "  Utomkringaktenskap  " 
("  Unmarried  ")•  Only  fancy !  I  am  so  deep  in  it  that  the  out- 
side world,  the  world  which  is  unconnected  with  my  work,  no 
longer  exists  for  me.  The  state,  physical  and  mental,  in  which 
one  finds  one's  self  when  writing  something  new  is  wonderful. 
A  thousand  doubts  as  to  its  merits,  and  as  to  your  own  value, 
assail  you.  And  in  the  depths  of  your  heart  there  is  the  joy  of 
possessing  a  secret  world  of  your  very  own,  in  which  you  are  at 
home,  and  the  outer  world  becomes  a  shadow.  ...  In  the  midst 
of  all  this  I  have  a  new  idea.  S6nya  and  I  have  got  an  inspira- 
tion. We  are  going  to  write  a  drama  of  two  parts,  which  will 
occupy  two  evenings.  That  is  to  say,  the  idea  is  hers,  and  I  am 
to  carry  it  out  and  fill  up  the  plot.  I  think  the  idea  very  orig- 
inal. The  first  portion  will  show  "  How  it  was,"  and  the  second 
"  How  it  might  have  been."  In  the  first  every  one  is  unhappy, 
because,  in  real  life,  people  generally  hinder  rather  than  further 
one  another's  happiness.  In  the  second  the  same  personages 
assist  one  another,  form  a  little  ideal  commune,  and  are  happy. 
Do  not  mention  this  to  any  one.  I  really  do  not  know  more  of 
S6nya's  idea  than  this  mere  sketch.  To-morrow  she  is  going  to 
tell  me  her  plot,  and  I  shall  be  able  to  judge  whether  there  be 
any  dramatic  possibilities  in  it.  You  will  laugh  at  me  for  always 
anticipating  ihefnale  as  soon  as  I  have  seen  the  start.  I  already 
see  S6nya  and  myself  collaborating  in  a  work  which  will  have  a 

1G 


242  SONYA  KOVALtiVSKY 

world-wide  success,  at  least  in  the  present,  and  perhaps  also  in 
the  future.  We  are  quite  foolish  about  it.  If  we  can  only  do 
it,  it  would  reconcile  us  to  everything.  S6nya  would  forget  that 
Sweden  is  the  greatest  Philistia  on  earth,  and  would  no  longer 
complain  that  she  is  wasting  the  best  years  of  her  life  here. 
And  I — well,  I  should  forget  all  that  I  am  brooding  over.  You 
will  of  course  exclaim :  What  children  you  are  !  But  fortunately 
there  exists  a  realm  better  than  all  the  kingdoms  of  earth,  a 
kingdom  of  which  we  have  the  key — the  realm  of  the  imagina- 
tion, where  he  who  will  may  rule,  and  where  everything  is  pre- 
cisely as  you  wish  it  to  be.  But  perhaps  Sonya's  plot,  which 
was  at  first  intended  for  a  novel,  will  not  do  for  a  drama,  and  I 
could  not  write  a  novel  upon  some  one  else's  plan,  for  in  a  novel 
you  are  in  much  closer  relation  to  your  production  than  in  a 
drama. 

February  10th. 

Sonya  is  overjoyed  at  this  new  project,  and  the  fresh  pos- 
sibility in  her  life.  She  says  she  now  understands  how  a  man 
grows  more  and  more  deeply  in  love  with  the  mother  of  his  chil- 
dren. Of  course  /  am  the  mother,  because  I  am  to  bring  this 
mental  offspring  into  the  world ;  and  she  is  so  devoted  to  me 
that  it  makes  me  happy  to  see  her  beaming  eyes.  We  enjoy 
ourselves  immensely.  I  do  not  think  two  women-friends  have 
ever  enjoyed  each  other's  society  so  much  as  we  do — and  we 
shall  be  the  first  example  in  literature  of  two  women-collabo- 
rators. I  have  never  been  so  kindled  by  an  idea  as  by  this  one. 
As  soon  as  S6nya  told  me  of  it,  it  shot  through  me  like  a  thun- 
derbolt. It  was  a  real  explosion.  She  told  me  her  plot  on  the 
3d,  but  it  was  made  for  a  novel  in  Russian  surroundings.  When 
she  left  me  I  sat  up  half  the  night  in  the  dark  in  my  rocking- 
chair,  and  when  I  went  to  bed  the  whole  plot  lay  clear  before 
me.  On  Friday  I  talked  it  over  with  Sonya,  and  on  Saturday  I 
began  to  write.  Now  the  whole  first  portion,  a  prologue  and  five 
acts,  is  sketched  out.  That  is  to  say,  I  did  it  in  five  days,  work- 
ing only  two  hours  a  day,  for  when  working  at  high  pressure  one 
cannot  sustain  it  long.  I  have  never  done  anything  so  quickly. 
Generally  I  contemplate  an  idea  for  months,  even  for  years,  be- 
fore I  begin  to  write. 

April  21st. 

The  most  pleasant  thing  about  this  work  is,  as  you  will  have 
noticed,  that  I  admire  it  so  much.  This  is  the  result  of  collabo- 


A  BIOGRAPHY  243 

ration.  I  believe  in  it  because  it  is  S6nya's  idea,  for  naturally 
it  is  much  easier  for  me  to  believe  that  she  is  inspired,  than  to 
believe  such  a  thing  of  myself.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  admires 
my  work,  the  spirit  and  artistic  form  which  I  give  to  the  design. 
It  would  be  impossible  to  have  a  better  arrangement.  It  is  de- 
lightful to  be  able  to  admire  one's  own  work  without  conceit.  I 
have  never  felt  so  much  confidence  or  such  little  misgiving.  If 
we  fail,  I  think  we  must  commit  suicide  !  .  .  .  You  wish  to  know 
Madame  KovaleVsky's  share  in  the  work.  It  is  quite  true  that 
she  has  not  written  a  single  sentence.  But  she  has  not  only  orig- 
inated the  whole,  but  has  also  thought  out  the  contents  of  each 
act.  She  has  given  me  besides  several  psychological  traits  for 
the  biiilding  up  of  the  characters.  We  read  daily  what  I  have 
done,  and  she  makes  remarks  and  offers  suggestions.  She  asks 
to  hear  it  over  and  over  again,  as  children  ask  for  their  favor- 
ite tales.  She  thinks  nothing  in  all  the  world  could  be  more 
interesting. 

On  March  9th  we  read  the  play  aloud  for  the  first 
time  to  our  intimate  friends.  Up  to  that  moment  our 
illusion  and  joy  had  been  continually  rising  higher 
and  higher.  Sonya  had  such  overwhelming  fits  of 
exultation  that  she  was  obliged  to  go  out  into  the 
forest  to  shout  out  her  delight  under  the  open  sky. 
Every  day,  when  we  had  finished  our  work,  we  took 
long  walks  in  Till  Jans'  wood,  close  to  our  houses  in 
town.  There  Sonya  jumped  over  stones  and  hillocks, 
took  me  in  her  arms  and  danced  about,  shouting  that 
life  was  beautiful,  the  future  fascinating  and  full  of 
promise.  She  cherished  the  most  exaggerated  hopes 
of  the  success  of  our  drama.  She  fancied  it  would 
inarch  in  triumph  from  capital  to  capital  in  Europe. 
Such  a  new  and  original  idea  could  not  but  prove  a 
triumph  in  literature.  "This  is  how  it  might  have 
been."  It  is  a  dream  actually  experienced  by  every 
one ;  and  seen  in  the  objective  light  lent  by  the  stage, 
it  could  not  fail  to  prove  entrancing.  The  very  essence 
of  the  plot  was  the  glorification  of  love  as  the  only  im- 


244  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

portant  thing  in  life ;  and  the  social  community  of  the 
future  lay  in  the  vista  it  opened  up,  a  community  in 
which  each  man  should  live  for  others,  even  as  now 
two  live  for  each  other.  In  all  this  lay  very  much  of 
Sonya's  deepest  feeling  and  ideal  of  happiness. 

The  motto  of  the  first  part  was  to  be,  "  What  shall 
it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his 
own  soul?"  and  of  the  second  part,  "He  who  loses  his 
life  shall  save  it." 

But  after  the  first  reading  to  our  friends  the  work 
entered  into  a  new  phase.  Up  to  then  we  had  seen  it 
as  it  might  have  been  rather  than  as  it  was.  Now  all 
the  faults  and  shortcomings  of  the  work,  which  had 
been  written  in  such  feverish  haste,  became  apparent. 
And  then  began  the  tedious  process  of  revision. 

During  the  whole  of  that  winter  Sonya  could  not 
bring  herself  to  think  of  her  great  mathematical  work, 
though  the  date  of  the  competition  for  the  Prix  Bordin 
was  already  fixed.1  She  ought  to  have  been  working 
for  it  with  the  utmost  diligence.  Mittag  Leffler,  who 
always  felt  a  kind  of  responsibility  for  her,  and  knew 
that  it  was  of  the  greatest  importance  for  her  to  gain 
the  prize,  was  in  despair  when,  each  time  that  he  called 
upon  her,  he  found  her  embroidering  in  her  drawing- 
room.  She  had,  just  then,  a  perfect  mania  for  needle- 
work. Like  the  Ingeborg  of  ancient  romance,  weaving 
the  deeds  of  her  heroes,  so  she  embroidered  in  silk  and 
wool  the  drama  she  could  not  indite  with  pen  and  ink. 
While  her  needle  mechanically  went  in  and  out,  her 
imagination  was  at  work,  and  one  scene  after  the  other 
was  pictured  in  her  mind. 

I,  for  my  part,  worked  with  the  pen,  and  when  we 
found  that  needle  and  pen  had  arrived  at  the  same  re- 
sult, our  joy  was  great.  It  certainly  reconciled  us 
1  Appendix  H. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  245 

to  the  differences  of  opinion  to  which  we  were  often 
led,  as  our  imaginations  worked  in  opposite  directions. 
But  this  more  frequently  took  place  during  revision 
than  in  the  first  draft  of  our  play.  Many  were  the 
crises  through  which  the  drama  passed  at  this  period. 
The  following  little  note  from  Sonya  is  in  answer 
to  some  communication  from  me  on  one  of  these 
occasions : 

My  poor  child!  how  often  it  has  hovered  between  life  and 
death !  What  has  happened  nowf  Have  you  been  inspired,  or 
the  reverse  ?  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  you  have  written  as  you 
did  to  me  out  of  pure  wickedness,  so  that  I  might  lecture  badly 
to-day !  How  can  you  imagine  that  I  can  think  about  my  lecture 
when  I  know  that  my  poor  little  bantling  is  going  through  such 
a  dangerous  crisis  !  I  am  glad  I  have  played  the  part  of  father, 
so  that  I  can  feel  what  poor  men  must  suffer  from  this  miserable 
necessity  of  revision.  I  wish  I  could  see  Strindberg,  and  shake 
hands  with  him  for  once  !  .  .  . 

I  wrote  about  our  drama  on  the  1st  of  April  to 
a  friend : 

I  have  tried  to  introduce  a  little  change  into  the  method  of 
our  work.  To  Sonya's  great  despair  I  have  forbidden  her  my 
study  until  I  have  furbished  up  the  whole  of  the  second  part  of 
the  play.  I  was  too  much  interrupted  and  worried  by  the  un- 
ceasing collaboration  while  writing  the  first  part.  I  lost  both 
the  survey  of  the  whole,  and  all  interest  and  intimate  sympathy 
with  my  characters.  The  desire  for  solitude  which  is  so  strong 
in  me  has  been  denied  me.  My  personality  has  been  merged 
in  Sonya's  by  her  powerful  influence,  and  still  her  individuality 
has  not  had  full  expression.  The  whole  strength  of  my  working 
power  lies  in  solitude,  and  this  is  a  chief  objection  to  collabora- 
tion even  with  such  a  sympathetic  nature  as  Sonya's.  She  is 
the  complement  of  my  nature.  She  is  Alice  in  the  "  Struggle 
for  Happiness,"  who  cannot  create  anything  nor  embrace  any- 
thing with  her  whole  heart  unless  she  can  share  it  with  another. 
Everything  she  has  produced  in  mathematical  work  has  been 
influenced  by  some  one  else,  and  even  her  lectures  are  only  suc- 
oessfiil  when  Gosta  is  present. 
16* 


246  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

Sonya  often  jestingly  acknowledged  this  dependence 
on  her  surroundings,  and  once  wrote  a  note  to  iny 
brother,  saying: 

DEAR  PROFESSOR:  Shall  you  come  to  my  lecture  to-morrow? 
Do  not,  if  you  are  tired.  I  will  try  to  lecture  as  well  as  if  you 
were  there. 

Once,  when  I  had  sent  her  some  birthday  wishes  in 
rhyme,  she  replied  in  the  following  verses,  charac- 
teristic of  herself,  in  which,  as  often  before,  she  terms 
herself  a  chameleon : 

The  changeful  chameleon,  you  always  knew, 

So  soon  as  he  sits  alone  in  his  nook, 

Is  dull  and  ugly  and  gray  in  his  look ; 
But  in  a  bright  light  he  is  lovely  to  view. 

No  beauty  has  he,  but  he  always  reflects 
What  around  him  exists  of  beautiful  hue ; 
He  can  shimmer  alike  in  gold,  green,  or  blue, 

And  of  all  his  friends'  hues  there  is  none  he  rejects. 

In  this  creature,  meseems,  my  likeness  I  see ; 

For,  dearest  of  friends,  wherever  you  go 

I  go  in  your  steps ;  for  it  is  ay  so 
That  I  can't  stay  behind,  nor  be  turned  back  from  thee. 

To  a  friend  such  as  you  all  my  reverence  is  due ; 

You  write  and  you  paint  and  you  draw  and  what  not. 

These  things  are  to  me  but  rubbish  and  rot, 
But,  mercy  upon  me  !  you  poetize  too ! 

In  the  character  of  Alice,  Sonya,  as  I  have  already 
remarked,  thought  to  reproduce  herself.  Indeed,  some 
of  the  sentences  in  the  book  are  so  characteristic  of  her 
that  they  are  almost  reproductions  of  words  that  she 
actually  spoke.  In  the  great  scene  of  Hjalmar  (1st 
part,  act  iii.,  sc.  2)  she  has  tried  to  give  expression  to 
her  own  ardent  desire  for  tenderness,  and  union  with 


A  BIOGRAPHY  247 

another;  to  her  despairing  feeling  of  loneliness,  and 
the  peculiar  want  of  self-confidence  which  was  always 
aroused  when  she  felt  herself  less  beloved  than  she 
desired. 

Alice  says:  "I  am  well  accustomed  to  see  others 
beloved  more  than  myself.  At  school  it  was  always 
said  that  I  was  the  most  gifted  of  pupils ;  but  I  felt 
the  irony  of  fate  in  bestowing  upon  me  so  many 
gifts  only  to  make  me  feel  what  I  might  have  been  to 
others.  But  no  one  cared  for  my  affection.  I  do  not 
ask  for  much — very  little — just  sufficient  to  prevent 
any  one  from  intervening  betwixt  me  and  the  one  I 
love.  I  have  all  my  life  wished  to  be  first  with  some 
one.  .  .  .  Let  me  only  show  you  what  I  can  be  when 
I  am  loved !  I  am  not,  after  all,  a  soul  utterly  with- 
out resource.  Look  at  me !  Am  I  handsome  ?  Yes, 
if  I  am  loved !  Then  I  become  beautiful,  not  other- 
wise !  Am  I  good  ?  Yes,  if  any  one  is  fond  of  me 
I  am  goodness  itself !  Am  I  unselfish  ?  I  can  be  so 
utterly  unselfish  that  my  every  thought  is  bound  up 
in  another ! " 

Thus  touchingly  and  passionately  could  the  admired 
and  celebrated  S6nya  Kovalevsky  entreat  for  a  devo- 
tion which  she  never  received.  Not  once  was  she  the 
first  nor  the  only  one  with  any  person,  though  she 
longed  so  passionately  for  this  boon,  and  though  one 
would  have  imagined  she  possessed  all  the  gifts  which 
could  win  and  preserve  such  love. 

Alice  desires  to  participate  in  all  Karl's  interests. 
She  grows  bitter  when,  for  various  reasons,  he  draws 
back  from  her.  She  will  not  listen  to  reason.  She 
tries  to  force  him  to  put  aside  all  other  considerations 
and  be  true  both  to  himself  and  his  calling,  and  to  his 
love.  This  is  Sonya  through  and  through. 

When,  in  the  second  part  of  the  drama,  Alice  breaks 


248  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

violently  with  her  past  life,  and  sacrifices  riches  and 
position  to  live  and  work  with  Karl  in  a  garret,  it  is 
again  S6nya  as  she  pictured  to  herself  what  she  would 
have  been  had  she  had  the  good  luck  of  such  a  choice. 
I  do  not  doubt  that  if  she  had  written  the  scene 
in  which  Karl's  happiness  is  depicted,  it  would  have 
been  stronger,  and  have  received  a  more  personal  and 
warmer  coloring  than  is  now  the  case. 

Alice's  dreams  about  the  People's  Palace  at  Herr- 
hamra,  and  about  the  great  Labor  Association ;  her 
remark,  "  How  different  it  would  have  all  been  had  we 
received  the  same  education  and  had  the  same  social 
traditions,  so  as  to  form  a  band  of  comrades,"  describe 
also  Sonya's  dreams,  and  are  her  own  identical  words. 

Sonya  idealized  the  socialism  of  the  future,  and 
often  described,  in  glowing  and  eloquent  words,  a 
happy  commonwealth  in  which  every  one  felt  bound 
to  every  other  by  identity  of  fate — a  commonwealth 
in  which  there  were  no  opposing  interests ;  where  the 
happiness  of  one  would  be  the  happiness  of  all,  the 
sufferings  of  one  the  sufferings  of  all. 

After  her  death  a  friend  of  hers  told  me  that  once, 
when  her  husband  telegraphed  to  Sonya  that  he  be- 
lieved one  of  his  speculations  had  resulted  in  a  vast 
fortune,  she  had  immediately  planned  a  socialistic  com- 
munity. It  was  her  favorite  dream,  and  she  sought  to 
give  expression  to  it  in  the  second  part  of  the  drama, 
"  A  Struggle  for  Happiness."  Her  dream  was  of  both 
personal  happiness  and  the  happiness  of  mankind  in 
general. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  quote  some  sympathetic 
words  of  Hermann  Bang,  in  a  short  sketch  which  he 
wrote  of  her  whom  we  have  lost,  and  published  in  a 
Danish  review.  Speaking  of  the  above-mentioned 
drama,  he  says : 


A  BIOGRAPHY  249 

I  admit  that  I  love  this  strange  play,  which,  with  mathemat- 
ical exactness,  depicts  the  almighty  power  of  love,  and  proves 
that  love,  and  love  alone,  is  everything  in  life,  and  alone  decides 
growth  or  decay.  In  love  alone  lie  development  and  strength, 
and  alone  through  love  can  duty  be  fulfilled. 

No  one  could  have  better  formulated  than  in  the 
above  words  the  essence  of  the  dramas  which  were  the 
••  confession"  of  Sonya's  life.  It  only  grieves  me  that 
they  were  written  too  late  for  her  to  feel  the  joy  of 
being  so  fully  understood. 

With  her  characteristic  wish  to  explain  scientifically 
all  the  phenomena  of  life,  Sonya  had  also  invented  a 
whole  theory  to  account  for  the  idea  of  this  double 
drama.  She  wrote  the  outline  of  an  unfinished  pro- 
logue, which,  even  now,  and  in  spite  of  its  fragmen- 
tary form,  will  be  read  with  interest,  as  is  everything 
which  fell  from  her  pen.  She  sent  it  to  me  accom- 
panied by  the  following  lines : 

DEAR  CABLOTTA:  I  cannot  help  it.  I  cannot  make  it  any 
better.  But  if  you  can  link  my  stray  thoughts  together,  it  is 
well.  If  you  cannot,  we  must  let  the  book  appear  without  a 
prologue.  If  any  one  attacks  us  we  can  explain  later. 

Your  S6NYA. 

The  prologue  ran  thus : 

Every  one,  perhaps,  has  at  one  time  or  another  given  his 
imagination  play,  and  pictured  how  different  his  life  would  have 
been  had  he  acted  differently  at  some  decisive  moment.  In 
every-day  life  one  often  realizes  that  he  is  the  slave  of  outward 
circumstance.  The  even  tenor  of  the  days  binds  one  with  a 
thousand  invisible  links.  Every  one  fills  a  given  sphere  in  life. 
Every  one  has  certain  definite  duties  which  are  fulfilled  almost 
automatically,  without  straining  the  energies  to  the  utmost.  It 
matters  little  whether  to-morrow  one  is  a  little  better  or  a  little 
worse,  a  little  stronger  or  a  little  weaker,  or  a  little  more  or  less 
gifted,  than  to-day.  One  cannot  divert  the  stream  of  his  life 
from  the  channel  it  has  taken,  without,  at  the  same  time,  pre- 
supposing the  possession  of  qualities  so  unlike  those  which  he 


250  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

really  has  that  it  is  impossible,  except  in  a  dream,  to  imagine 
being  possessed  of  them  without  losing  the  feeling  of  identity. 
But  when  remembering  certain  moments  in  one's  life,  the  case 
is  altogether  different.  At  those  moments  the  illusions  of  free 
will  become  strangely  intense.  One  fancies  that  if  he  could 
have  tried  a  little  harder,  had  been  cleverer  or  more  decided,  he 
might  have  turned  his  destiny  into  another  channel.  On  much 
the  same  ground  stands  our  belief  in  miracles.  None  but  a  mad 
person  can  think  of  asking  the  Creator  to  change  the  great  laws 
of  nature ;  for  instance,  to  awaken  the  dead.  But  I  should  like 
to  put  a  test-question  to  orthodox  people.  Have  they  never,  at 
any  time,  asked  for  a  small  change  in  the  course  of  events,  such, 
for  instance,  as  recovery  from  sickness  ?  Often  a  small  miracle 
seems  so  much  easier  than  a  great  one,  and  it  requires  quite  an 
effort  of  the  mind  to  realize  that  both  are  precisely  alike.  So  it 
is  with  our  thoughts  about  ourselves.  It  is  almost  impossible 
for  me  to  realize  what  I  should  feel  if  I  woke  one  morning  with 

a  voice  like  Jenny  land's,  with  a  body  supple  and  strong  as , 

or  with  a ;  but  I  can  easily  imagine  that  my  complexion  is 

.      It  is  just  such  a  critical  moment  which  the  authors 

attempt  to  describe  in  these  dramas.  Karl,  according  to  their 
idea,  is  one  and  the  same  person  in  either  play,  only  gifted 
with  such  slight  differences  of  character  as  one  can  easily  ima- 
gine without  losing  the  sense  of  individuality.  In  ordinary  life 
such  differences  would  scarcely  be  noticeable.  Under  most 
circumstances  they  would  have  no  influence  on  the  decision 
between  two  actions.  Suppose,  for  instance,  that  all  had  gone 
well  with  our  hero  and  heroine ;  that  the  father  had  lived  a  cou- 
ple of  years  longer;  in  that  case  Karl,  as  described  in  either 
drama,  would  have  had  no  different  fate.  The  divergence  of 
life  under  such  circumstances  would  have  been  so  small  that  it 
would  not  have  affected  the  main  current  of  events.  But,  as 
it  was,  a  decisive  moment  arrived  at  a  time  that  two  different 
duties  seemed  to  call  in  two  different  directions,  and  it  was  the 
slight  difference  in  character  above  alluded  to  that  decided  the 
choice  of  opposite  ways,  and,  once  made,  caused  their  fates  to 
diverge  without  ever  meeting  again.  Or  let  us  choose  an  exam- 
ple from  mechanics.  Think  for  a  moment  of  a  common  pendu- 
lum, or,  if  you  prefer  it,  a  small  ball  hanging,  by  a  very  slight 
but  supple  string,  from  a  nail.  If  you  give  the  ball  a  little 
touch,  it  will  swing  to  one  side,  describe  a  given  circle,  rise  to 
a  given  height,  and  return  again,  but  not  to  stop  at  the  same 


A  BIOGRAPHY  251 

point ;  it  swings  to  about  the  same  height  on  the  opposite  side, 
and  continues  to  oscillate  for  some  time.  Had  the  original  im- 
pulse been  a  little  stronger,  the  ball  would  have  swung  higher, 
and  the  rest  of  the  movement  would  have  been  on  the  same 
scale.  But  if  the  original  impulse  had  been  so  strong  as  to 
cause  the  ball  to  pass  the  highest  point  which  the  length  of 
string  permitted,  the  ball  would  not  swing  back,  but  would  con- 
tinue its  course  on  the  other  side  of  the  periphery,  and  in  this 
case  the  movement  would  be  utterly  changed  in  character. 

Two  similar  impulses,  one  of  which,  however,  is  weaker  and 
the  other  stronger  than  a  certain  average  force,  always  produce 
two  entirely  different  results.  In  mechanics  one  is  accustomed 
to  study  just  the  extreme  and  critical  moments,  and  it  is  evi- 
dent that;  if  you  wish  to  gain  a  clear  idea  about  phenomena,  it 
is  all-important  to  study  them  when  near  the  critical  point  of 
balance.  The  authors  of  the  double  drama  have  deemed  it 
might  be  interesting  to  depict  the  effect  of  such  a  critical  mo- 
ment on  two  individuals,  similar  but  not  identical.  In  order  to 
understand  the  play  perfectly,  Karl  in  the  two  parts  must  not 
be  imagined  as  one  and  the  same  person.  But  the  difference  in 
the  two  characters,  though  the  one  is  rather  more  ideal  than  the 
other,  and  better  able  to  distinguish  between  important  and  un- 
important things,  is  so  small  that  in  every-day  life  it  would  be 
almost  impossible  to  distinguish  one  Karl  from  the  other.  Had 
all  gone  well,  had  his  father  lived  till  his  son  had  an  established 
position,  no  doubt  the  destiny  of  the  two  Karls  would  have 
been  almost  identical.  They  would  have  become  celebrated  as 
scientists,  married  at  the  same  age,  and  made  the  same  choice. 
But  trial  comes  at  the  critical  moment,  and  the  almost  imper- 
ceptible advantage  which  the  one  has  over  the  other  enables 
him  to  surmount  the  critical  point,  while  the  other  falls  heavily 
back. 

The  revision  of  the  work  took  much  longer  than  the 
original  composition,  and  when  Sonya  and  I  separated 
for  the  summer  it  was  not  yet  concluded. 


XI 

DISAPPOINTMENTS  AND  SOEEOW 

SONYA  and  I  had  intended  to  spend  the  summer 
(1878)  together.  The  new  literary  partners,  "  Kor- 
vin-Leffler  "  (Sonya  and  her  biographer),  intended  to 
go  to  Berlin  and  Paris  in  order  to  make  acquaintances 
in  the  literary  and  theatrical  world,  which  would 
prove  useful  to  them  later  on  when  the  offspring  of 
their  genius  was  ready  to  make  its  triumphal  progress 
through  the  world. 

But  all  these  dreams  fell  to  the  ground. 

It  had  been  decided  that  we  should  start  in  the 
middle  of  May.  We  were  as  happy  in  the  prospect  as 
though  the  whole  world  of  success  and  interest  lay 
safely  before  us,  when  once  more  sad  news  from 
Russia  frustrated  all  our  plans.  Sonya's  sister  was 
again  dangerously  ill.  Her  husband  had  been  forced 
to  return  unexpectedly  to  Paris.  There  was  no  help 
for  it ;  S6nya  was  obliged  to  take  a  sorrowful  journey 
to  a  painful  sick-bed.  Any  thought  of  pleasure  was 
out  of  the  question,  and  all  her  letters  of  that  summer 
show  that  she  was  in  very  bad  spirits.  She  writes : 

My  sister  continues  in  the  same  state  as  last  winter.  She 
suffers  much,  and  looks  desperately  ill.  She  has  not  strength 
enough  to  turn  from  side  to  side,  but  yet  I  think  she  is  not  quite 
without  hope  of  recovery.  She  is  so  glad  I  am  with  her.  She 
always  says  she  would  have  died  if  I  had  refused  to  come.  .  .  . 

252 


A  BIOGRAPHY  253 

I  feel  so  depressed  that  I  cannot  write  more  to-day.  The  only 
thing  that  is  pleasant  is  to  think  of  our  "  fairy  dream  "  and  of 
"Vse  Victis." 

This  alludes  to  the  plan  we  had  formed  in  the  spring 
of  uniting  the  works  together.  The  "  fairy  dream  "  was 
mine,  and  was  to  be  called  "  When  Death  Shall  Be  No 
More."  When  I  mentioned  the  idea  to  Sonya  she  seized 
upon  it  so  vehemently,  and  worked  it  out  in  her 
imagination  so  fully,  that  she  was  a  partner  in  its 
production.  "  Vse  Victis  "  was  her  creation,  and  was 
to  be  a  novel.  Its  idea  and  plot  were  very  charac- 
teristic of  her,  but  she  did  not  think  she  could  write 
it  alone.  She  wrote  to  me : 

You  tell  me  I  am  of  some  importance  in  your  life — and  yet 
you  have  so  much  more  than  ever  I  had.  Think,  then,  what 
you  must  be  to  me,  who  am  so  lonely,  and  who  feel  myself  poor 
in  affection  and  friendship. 

Still  later  she  wrote : 

Have  you  never  noticed  that  there  are  periods  when  every- 
thing in  life,  both  for  one's  self  and  one's  friends,  seems  to  be 
covered  as  with  a  black  veil?  One  hardly  recognizes  one's 
dearest  and  nearest.  The  sweetest  strawberries  turn  to  dust  in 
your  mouth.  The  wood-fairy  says  that  this  always  happens  to 
little  children  who  pay  him  for  truant  visits  to  his  haunts.  Per- 
haps we  two  had  no  permission  to  spend  this  summer  together 
—  and  yet  we  had  worked  so  hard  during  last  winter!  I  try, 
however,  to  make  use  of  every  moment  I  can  spare.  I  think 
out  my  mathematical  problem,  and  muse  deeply  upon  PoincarS's 
treatises,  which  are  full  of  genius.  I  am  too  depressed,  and 
have  no  energy  to  do  literary  work.  Everything  seems  so  faded 
and  uninteresting.  At  such  moments  mathematics  are  a  relief. 
It  is  such  a  comfort  to  feel  that  there  is  another  world  outside 
one's  self.  One  really  does  want  to  talk  of  something  besides 
one's  self ;  only  you,  my  dear  and  precious  friend,  are  always 
the  same  —  and  always  dear.  I  can  scarcely  express  in  words 
how  much  I  long  for  you.  You  are  the  dearest  thing  I  possess, 
and  our  friendship  must  at  least  last  all  my  life.  I  do  not  know 
what  I  should  do  without  it. 


254  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

Later  on  she  wrote  in  French : 

My  brother-in-law  has  decided  to  remain  in  St.  Petersburg 
till  my  sister  is  able  to  accompany  him  to  Paris.  I  have  thus 
sacrificed  myself  quite  uselessly.  If  I  knew  you  were  free,  I 
would  join  you  in  Paris,  though  I  must  say  all  this  has  quite 
taken  away  any  wish  to  enjoy  myself.  I  feel  rather  anxious  to 
stay  somewhere  where  I  could  write  in  peace.  I  have  such  a 
strong  desire  for  some  kind  of  work,  either  literary  or  mathe- 
matical. I  want  to  lose  myself  in  work,  so  as  to  forget  myself 
and  every  one  else.  If  you  wanted  to  meet  me  as  much  as  I 
want  to  meet  you,  I  would  go  anywhere  to  join  you.  But  if 
your  summer  is  already,  as  is  probable,  planned  out,  I  shall  stay 
here,  most  likely,  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  then  return  with  Fouzi 
to  Stockholm,  where  I  intend  to  live  on  the  islands  and  to  work 
with  all  my  might.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  any  arrangements 
for  pleasure-trips.  You  know  what  a  fatalist  I  am.  I  fancy  I 
see  in  the  stars  that  I  must  expect  no  happiness  this  summer. 
It  is  better,  therefore,  to  be  resigned,  and  use  no  more  vain  en- 
deavors. .  .  .  Yesterday  I  wrote  the  beginning  of  "VseVictis." 
I  shall  most  likely  never  finish  it.1  Perhaps  what  I  have  written 
to-day  may  nevertheless  be  useful  to  you  as  material.  In  order 
to  write  about  mathematics  one  must  feel  more  at  home  than  I 
do  at  this  moment. 

In  a  letter  written  later  on,  when  Sonya  had  settled 
down  in  the  islands  near  Stockholm,  she  writes : 

I  enjoyed  the  last  few  weeks  in  Russia  very  much.  I  made 
some  rather  interesting  acquaintances.  But  a  conservative  old 
mathematical  pedant  like  me  cannot  write  well  away  from 
home.  So  I  returned  to  old  Sweden  with  my  books  and  my 
papers. 

Later,  from  the  same  place : 

I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  our  first-born. 
But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  find  awfully  many  faults  in  the  poor  little 
creature,  especially  in  the  composition.  As  though  in  ridicule, 
fate  has  brought  me  into  contact  with  three  "  explorers  "  this 
year,  all  very  interesting  in  different  ways.  One  of  them,  in 
my  opinion  the  least  gifted,  has  already  been  successful.  The 
other,  who  is  full  of  genius  in  some  ways  and  in  others  very 

1  The  italics  are  her  own. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  255 

limited,  has  just  begun  to  struggle  for  fame.  What  the  result 
will  be  I  cannot  say.  The  third,  an  interesting  type,  is  already 
helplessly  broken,  mentally  and  physically,  but  most  interesting 
for  an  author  to  study.  The  history  of  these  three  "  explorers  " 
— in  all  its  simplicity — seems  to  me  much  fuller  than  all  we 
have  written  about  Karl  and  Alice.  In  accordance  with  your 
brother's  wish,  I  have  brought  a  volume  of  Euneberg's  poems  to 
study  here  ("Hanna,"  "Nadeschda,"  etc.),  and  I  am  now  read- 
ing them.  But  I  do  not  care  for  them  much.  They  have  all 
the  same  fault  as  Haydn's  "  Creation."  The  devil  is  missing,  and 
without  some  touch  of  this  high  power  there  is  no  harmony  in 
this  world. 

During  this  summer  I  also  received  a  jesting  letter 
from  Sonya,  which  I  quote  because  it  gives  a  fair 
sample  of  her  satirical  mood.  As  she  did  not  shine 
in  the  habit  of  order  in  the  keeping  of  her  papers  and 
other  matters,  she  often  received  from  me,  in  confi- 
dential letters,  some  sharp  admonitions  to  be  careful 
not  to  let  such  letters  lie  about.  She  consequently 
wrote  me  the  following  note : 

POOR  ANNA  CARLOTTA  !  It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  getting  to 
be  a  regular  malady  with  you  to  think  that  your  letters  are 
going  to  fall  into  other  hands  than  those  for  whom  they  were 
meant.  The  symptoms  are  getting  more  and  more  serious  each 
time  !  I  think  any  one  who  writes  such  an  unintelligible  hand 
as  yours  ought  not  to  be  uneasy  about  this  matter.  I  assure 
you  that,  with  the  exception  of  the  few  people  personally  inter- 
ested in  what  you  write,  you  would  hardly  find  any  one  who 
would  have  the  patience  to  decipher  your  scrawl.  As  to  your 
last  letter,  it  was,  of  course,  lost  in  the  post.  When  I  finally  did 
get  it  from  the  Dead  Letter  Office,  I  hastened  to  leave  it  open 
on  the  table  for  the  benefit  of  maids  and  the  whole  G fam- 
ily. They  all  thought  the  letter  rather  well  written,  and  that  it 
contained  rather  interesting  things. — To-day  I  intend  to  call 
on  Professor  Monbau,  in  order  to  ask  about  translations  from 
the  Polish.  I  shall  take  your  letter  with  me,  and  try  my  best  to 
lose  it  in  his  reception-room.  I  can  do  nothing  better  to  make 
you  a  celebrity. 

Your  devoted 

S6NYA. 


256  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

When  we  met  in  the  autumn  we  began  the  final  re- 
vision of  our  double  drama.  But  the  work  was  purely 
mechanical ;  all  the  joy,  the  illusion,  the  enthusiasm, 
had  already  vanished.  By  November  the  printing  had 
begun,  and  we  offered  the  work  to  the  Dramatic  Theater. 

The  correction  of  the  proofs  occupied  us  till  winter. 
At  Christmas  the  drama  was  published,  and  received 
the  approbation  of  Virsen  and  the  Stockholm  Dagblatt; 
but  shortly  afterward  it  was  refused  by  the  Dramatic 
Theater.  A  note  from  Sonya  on  receiving  the  news 
of  this  check  shows  that  she  took  it  lightly : 

What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  you  faithless,  cruel  mother? 
Divide  the  Siamese  twins,  and  put  asunder  what  nature  has 
joined?  You  make  me  shudder.  Strindberg  was  right  in  his 
opinion  about  woman ;  but  in  spite  of  this  I  will  come  to  you 
this  evening,  you  horrid  creature ! 

The  fact  was  that  we  were  rather  indifferent  as  to 
the  fate  of  the  work  now  that  we  had  done  with  it. 
We  were  so  far  alike  that  we  only  cared  about  "  gen- 
erations yet  unborn,"  and  we  were  already  dreaming 
of  productions  that  were  to  have  far  greater  success. 
The  difference  between  us  was,  that  Sonya  still  clung 
with  all  her  heart  to  the  idea  of  collaboration,  while 
in  mine  the  idea  was  already  dead,  though  I  did  not 
dare  to  acknowledge  this  to  her.  Who  knows  if  it 
were  not  a  secret  craving  to  be  once  more  mistress  of 
my  own  thoughts  and  words  which  unconsciously  con- 
tributed to  the  decision  I  now  arrived  at,  namely,  to  go 
to  Italy  for  the  winter?  This  journey  had  been  often 
discussed,  but  S6nya  had  always  been  against  it  as 
a  treachery  to  our  friendship.  But  that  friendship, 
though  in  one  way  so  precious  to  me  and  fecund  in 
delight,  now  began  to  oppress  me  by  its  exactions.  I 
mention  the  fact  in  order  to  throw  light  on  the  later 
tragedy  of  Sonya's  love.  Her  idealistic  nature  sought 


A  BIOGRAPHY  257 

for  a  completeness  which  life  seldom  gives.  The  per- 
fect union  of  two  souls  could  not  be  realized  either  in 
friendship  or  in  love.  Her  friendship,  as  afterward 
also  her  love,  was  tyrannical,  in  the  sense  that  she 
would  not  allow  to  any  one  she  loved  a  feeling,  an 
affection,  or  a  thought,  of  which  she  was  not  the  ob- 
ject. She  wished  to  have  such  full  possession  of  the 
person  of  whom  she  was  fond  that  it  almost  excluded 
the  possibility  of  individual  life  in  that  other  person. 
Even  in  love  this  is  almost  impossible,  at  least  as  re- 
gards two  highly  developed  personalities;  and  natu- 
rally it  is  still  more  difficult  in  friendship.  The  very 
foundation  of  friendship  must  be  the  individual  liberty 
of  each  friend. 

To  this  peculiarity  in  Sonya  is  perhaps  owing  the 
fact  that  maternal  love  did  not  satisfy  her  craving  for 
tenderness.  A  child  does  not  love  in  the  same  way  in 
which  it  is  loved.  It  does  not  enter  into  the  interests 
of  its  parent.  It  takes  more  than  it  gives.  S6nya 
desired  and  demanded  self-sacrificing  devotion. 

I  do  not  mean  that  she  exacted  more  than  she  gave 
in  her  relations  with  those  of  whom  she  was  fond.  On 
the  contrary,  she  gave  full  meed  of  sympathy,  and  was 
prepared  to  sacrifice  herself  to  any  amount.  But  she 
expected  to  get  back  as  much  as  she  gave.  She  wished 
to  be  met  half-way,  and  she  considered  herself  to  be  of 
the  same  importance  to  her  friend  as  he  or  she  was  to  her. 

During  the  autumn  before  alluded  to,  besides  liter- 
ary disappointment,  Sonya  was  called  upon  to  bear  a 
great  and  bitter  sorrow.  The  sister  to  whose  sick-bed 
she  had  so  often  hurried  over  land  and  sea,  often  sac- 
rificing her  own  plans  and  wishes  to  the  desire  of 
being  with  her  at  the  last,  had  been  taken  to  Paris  for 
an  operation. 

Sonya  was  at  the  time  kept  fast  in  the  University 


258  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

by  her  lectures,  but,  had  her  sister  sent  for  her,  she 
would  have  gone  even  if  it  had  cost  her  her  professor- 
ship and  livelihood.  But  she  was  told  that  there  was 
no  danger  in  the  operation,  and  every  hope  of  full 
recovery.  She  had  already  received  news  that  the 
operation  had  been  successful,  when  a  telegram  sud- 
denly announced  her  sister's  death.  Inflammation  of 
the  lungs  had  supervened,  and  the  weak  state  of  the 
patient  had  caused  her  to  sink  almost  immediately. 

Sonya,  as  we  learn  in  her  "  Recollections  of  Child- 
hood," had  always  loved  this  sister  most  dearly.  To 
the  sorrow  of  having  lost  her  forever,  and  of  not 
being  with  her  at  the  last,  was  added  her  grief  at  the 
sad  tragedy  of  Aniuta's  life.  She  who  had  once  been  so 
brilliant,  so  greatly  admired,  had  been  consumed  by  a 
most  painful  illness.  Disappointed  in  everything  she 
had  hoped  for,  unhappy  in  all  personal  circumstances, 
hampered  in  her  career  as  an  author,  she  was  now  cut 
off  by  inexorable  death  in  the  very  flower  of  her  age  ! 
To  such  a  brooding  nature  as  Sonya's  all  sufferings 
were  magnified  because  she  generalized  them.  Any 
misfortune  which  befell  herself  or  those  she  loved  be- 
came the  misfortune  of  humanity.  She  not  only  bore 
her  own  sorrows,  but  those  of  the  world  at  large. 

It  pained  her  much  to  think  that  with  her  sister's 
death  the  last  link  was  broken  which  united  her  to  the 
home  of  her  childhood. 

"  There  is  no  one  now  who  remembers  me  as  the 
little  Sonya,"  she  said.  "  To  all  of  you  I  am  Madame 
KovaleVsky,  the  celebrated  scientist.  To  no  one  am  I 
any  longer  the  little,  shy,  reserved,  negligee  Sonya." 

But  the  great  self-command  she  possessed,  and  her 
power  of  concealing  her  feelings,  enabled  her  to  ap- 
pear, in  society,  much  the  same  as  before.  She  did 
not  even  wear  mourning.  Her  sister,  like  herself,  had 


A  BIOGEAPHY  259 

had  a  great  aversion  to  crape,  and  Sonya  considered 
it  would  be  a  false  conventionality  to  mourn  for  her 
in  that  manner.  But  the  inner  anguish  showed  itself 
in  intense  irritability.  She  would  cry  at  the  least  an- 
noyance— for  instance,  if  any  one  happened  to  tread 
on  her  foot,  or  if  she  tore  her  dress.  She  would  burst 
into  a  flood  of  angry  tears  at  the  least  contradiction. 
In  analyzing  herself,  as  she  always  did,  she  said : 

"  My  great  sorrow,  which  I  try  to  control,  shows  itself 
in  such  petty  irritability.  It  is  the  tendency  of  life  in 
general  to  turn  everything  into  pettiness,  and  one  never 
has  the  consolation  of  a  great  and  complete  suffering." 

Sonya  hoped  that  her  sister  might  somehow  appear 
to  her,  either  in  dreams  or  in  an  apparition.  She  had 
all  her  life  maintained  that  she  believed  in  dreams  as 
portents,  as  we  have  already  learned  from  the  friend 
of  her  youth,  and  she  believed  also  in  forebodings  and 
revelations  of  other  kinds. 

She  knew  long  beforehand  whether  a  year  was  to 
be  lucky  or  unlucky.  She  knew  that  the  year  1887 
would  bring  her  both  a  great  sorrow  and  a  great  joy. 
She  had  already  foretold  that  the  year  1888  would  be 
one  of  the  happiest  of  her  life,  and  that  1890  would 
be  the  saddest.  1891  was  to  bring  her  the  Dawn  of 
Light — this  dawn  was  that  of  death. 

Sonya  always  had  troubled  dreams  when  any  one 
whom  she  loved  was  suffering,  or  when  something  had 
happened  which  would  bring  her  sorrow.  The  last 
night  before  her  sister's  death  she  had  very  bad 
dreams — to  her  great  astonishment,  for  she  had  just 
had  good  news.  But  when  the  telegram  arrived  an- 
nouncing Aniuta's  death,  Sonya  said  she  ought  to  have 
been  prepared  for  it. 

But  the  vision  or  apparition  of  her  sister,  which  she 
expected  and  hoped  for  after  death,  never  came. 


XII 

TRIUMPH  AND  DEFEAT  —  ALL  WON,  ALL  LOST 

I  LEFT  Sonya  in  January,  1888,  and  we  did  not  meet 
again  till  September,  1889.  Two  years  had  not 
passed,  yet  both  our  lives  during  those  months  had 
gone  through  their  most  decisive  crises.  We  met 
again  like  changed  beings.  We  could  not  be  as  inti- 
mate as  formerly,  for  each  of  us  was  engrossed  in  her 
own  life's  drama,  and  neither  could  speak  to  the  other 
of  the  conflicts  through  which  she  had  passed. 

As  it  is  chiefly  the  object  of  this  Memoir  to  relate 
what  S6nya  said  about  herself,  I  shall,  with  regard  to 
this  last  tragedy  of  her  life,  narrate  only  what  she 
herself  told  me.  It  will  naturally  be  imperfect  and 
indefinite  in  detail,  because  she  no  longer  allowed  me 
to  read  her  inmost  heart. 

Shortly  after  my  departure  she  had  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  man  who  she  said  was,  in  her  opinion, 
more  full  of  genius  than  any  one  she  had  ever  known. 
She  had  from  the  first  been  attracted  to  him  by  the 
strongest  sympathy  and  admiration,  which,  little  by 
little,  had  developed  into  passionate  love.  He,  on  his 
side,  had  admired  her  warmly,  and  had  asked  her  to 
be  his  wife.  But  she  felt  that  he  was  drawn  to  her 
more  by  admiration  than  by  love,  and  naturally  re- 
fused to  marry  him.  She  now  threw  her  whole  soul 
into  the  endeavor  to  win  him  completely  and  awaken 
in  his  soul  the  same  devotion  which  she  felt  for  him. 

260 


A  BIOGRAPHY  261 

In  this  struggle  we  have  the  story  of  her  life  during 
the  long  period  in  which  we  were  separated.  She 
worried  herself  and  the  man  she  loved  with  exactions. 
She  made  "  scenes  " ;  was  jealous  and  irritable. 

They  parted  several  times  in  auger  and  bitterness, 
and  then  Sonya  was  torn  to  pieces  by  despair.  They 
met  again,  forgave  each  other,  and  parted  once  more 
as  violently  as  ever. 

Her  letters  to  me  at  this  time  show  very  little  of 
her  inner  life.  She  was  reserved  by  nature  where  her 
deepest  feelings  were  concerned,  and  more  especially 
when  touched  by  sorrow.  It  was  only  under  the  in- 
fluence of  personal  intercourse  that  she  melted  into 
confidence.  It  was  only  on  my  return  to  Sweden  that 
I  learned  what  I  know  of  this  portion  of  her  life. 

Shortly  after  my  departure  from  Stockholm  in  1888 
she  wrote : 

This  story  about  E [referring  to  an  incident  in  her  circle 

in  Stockholm]  inclines  me  to  take  up  again,  directly  I  regain 
my  freedom,  my  first-born,  "  The  Privat-doeent."  I  believe,  if  I 
worked  it  over,  I  could  make  something  good  of  it.  I  really 
feel  quite  proud  that  when  still  so  young  I  understood  certain 

sides  of  human  life.     When  I  now  analyze  E 's  feelings  to 

G ,  I  feel  I  have  depicted  the  relations  between  my  "Privat- 
docent  "  and  his  professor  marvelously  well.  What  an  admirable 
opportunity  I  shall  have  for  preaching  socialism !  or  at  least  for 
developing  the  theory  that  the  democratic  but  not  socialistic 
state  is  the  greatest  horror  possible. 

Shortly  after  this  she  writes : 

Thanks  for  your  letter  from  Dresden.  I  am  always  so  glad 
when  I  get  a  few  lines  from  you,  though  your  letter  on  the 
whole  gave  me  a  melancholy  impression.  What  is  to  be  doneT 
Life  is  sad.  One  never  gets  what  one  likes,  or  what  one  thinks 
one  needs — everything  else,  but  not  just  that  one  thmg.  Some 
one  else  will  get  the  happiness  I  desire,  and  get  it  altogether 
unwished  for.  The  service  in  Life's  Banquet  is  badly  managed. 
All  the  guests  seem  to  get  the  portions  destined  for  others. 

17* 


262  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

Nansen,  at  least,  seems  to  have  got  the  position  he  desired. 
He  is  so  kindled  with  enthusiasm  about  his  voyage  to  Greenland 
that  no  "  sweetheart "  could,  in  his  eyes,  be  of  any  importance 
compared  with  it.  So  you  must  refrain  from  writing  to  him  the 
brilliant  idea  which  occurred  to  you.  For  I  am  afraid  you  do 

not  know  that  not  even  the  knowledge  that would  keep 

him  from  visiting  the  souls  of  dead  heroes  which  the  Lapland 
Saga  says  hover  above  the  ice-fields  of  Greenland.  For  my 
part,  I  am  working  as  hard  as  ever  I  can  at  my  prize-treatise, 
but  without  any  special  enthusiasm  or  pleasure. 

Sonya  had  shortly  before  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Frithiof  Nansen,  while  he  had  been  in  Stockholm. 
His  whole  personality  and  his  bold  enterprise  had 
made  a  great  impression  on  her.  They  had  met  only 
once,  but  they  were  so  delighted  with  each  other  dur- 
ing that  one  meeting  that  later  on  they  both  thought 
it  would  have  been  possible,  had  nothing  else  inter- 
vened to  dim  the  impression,  for  it  to  deepen  into 
something  more  decided  and  lifelong. 

In  Sonya's  next  letter,  in  January,  1888,  she  writes 
again  on  the  same  subject : 

I  am  at  this  moment  under  the  influence  of  the  most  excit- 
ing book  I  have  ever  read.  I  got  to-day  from  Nansen  a  little 
pamphlet  with  a  short  outline  of  his  projected  wanderings 
through  the  ice-fields  of  Greenland.  I  got  quite  depressed  by 
it.  He  has  just  received  a  subscription  of  five  thousand  kroner 
[about  three  hundred  pounds]  from  a  Danish  merchant  named 
Gamel,  and  I  suppose  no  power  on  earth  could  now  keep  him 
back.  The  sketch  is  so  interesting  that  I  shall  send  it  to  you 
as  soon  as  you  forward  me  a  definite  address,  but  only  on  the 
understanding  that  I  get  it  back  immediately.  When  you  have 
read  it  you  will  have  a  very  fair  idea  of  the  man  himself.  To- 
day I  had  a  talk  with  B about  him.  B thinks  his  works 

full  of  genius.  He  also  thinks  him  much  too  good  to  risk  his  life 
in  Greenland. 

In  her  next  letter  appears  the  first  sign  of  the  crisis 
now  impending  in  her  life.  The  letter  is  not  dated, 
but  was  written  in  March  of  that  year.  She  had  now 


A  BIOGRAPHY  263 

made  the  acquaintance  of  the  man  who  was  to  exercise 
such  a  powerful  influence  on  the  rest  of  her  career. 
She  writes : 

You  also  ask  me  other  questions,  which  I  do  not  even  wish 
to  answer  to  myself — so  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  answer 
them  to  you.  I  am  afraid  of  making  plans  for  the  future.  The 
only  thing  that  unfortunately  is  certain  is  that  I  must  spend 
two  months  and  a  half  at  Stockholm.  But  perhaps  it  is  just  as 
well  for  me  to  realize  how  really  I  am  alone  in  life. 

I  had  written  to  Sonya  that  I  had  heard  from  some 
Scandinavians  in  Rome  that  Nansen  had  been  already 
engaged  for  several  years.  In  answer  to  this  I  received 
the  following  merry  letter : 

DEAR  ANNA  CABLOTTA  :  Souvent  femme  varie,  ~bien  fol  est  qui 
s'y  fie.  If  I  had  received  your  letter  with  its  awful  news  a  few 
weeks  ago,  it  would  no  doubt  have  broken  my  heart.  But  now 
I  confess,  to  my  shame,  that  when  I  read  your  deeply  sym- 
pathetic lines  yesterday,  I  could  not  help  bursting  out  into 

laughter.     It  was  a  hard  day  for  me,  for  stout  M was  leaving 

that  evening.  I  hope  some  of  the  family  have  already  told  you 
of  the  change  in  our  plans,  so  that  I  need  not  mention  that  sub- 
ject to-day.  On  the  whole,  I  think  this  change  of  plan  good  for 

me  personally.     For  if  stout  M had  stayed  longer,  I  do  not 

know  how  I  should  have  got  on  with  my  work.    He  is  so  great,  so 

grossgesclilagen, — according  to  R 's  happy  expression, — that 

he  really  takes  up  too  much  room  on  the  sofa  and  in  one's  mind. 
It  is  simply  impossible  for  me,  in  his  presence,  to  think  of  any 
one  or  anything  else  but  him.  During  the  ten  days  he  spent  in 
Stockholm  we  were  constantly  together,  generally  Ute-a-t4te, 
and  spoke  of  scarcely  anything  but  ourselves,  and  that  with  a 
frankness  which  would  have  amazed  you.  Still  I  cannot,  in 
spite  of  all  this,  analyze  my  feelings  for  him.  I  think  I  could 
best  give  my  impressions  of  him  in  music  set  to  De  Musset's  in- 
comparable words : 

"II  est  tres  joyeux,  et  pourtant  tres  maussade  — 
Detestable  voisin,  excellent  camarade  — 
Extremement  futil,  et  pourtant  tres  pos4  — 
Indignement  naif,  et  pourtant  tres  blas6  — 
Horriblement  sincere,  et  pourtant  tres  rus6." 


264  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

A  real  Eussian  he  is  into  the  bargain.  He  has  more  genius 
and  originality  in  one  of  his  little  fingers  than  you  could  squeeze 
out  of  both  yours  put  together,  even  if  you  put  them  under  a 
hydraulic  press. 

The  rest  of  the  letter  only  contains  the  outlines  of 
Sonya's  plans  for  the  summer's  trip,  which  were  not 
realized,  so  I  only  quote  the  most  important  facts : 

I  cannot  believe  I  shall  go  to  Bologna  [to  the  Jubilee,  at 
which  she  had  always  intended  to  be  present],  partly  because 
such  a  journey,  including  dresses  and  everything,  would  be  too 
expensive,  and  partly  because  all  such  celebrations  are  tedious 
and  not  at  all  to  my  taste.  It  is  also  very  important  that  I  should 
be  in  Paris  for  a  short  time.  I  intend  to  stay  there  from  May 

15th  to  June  15th.    After  that  we  shall  come  with  fat  Mr.  M 

to  meet  you  in  Italy,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  shall  certainly 
spend  ten  months  there  with  you.  That  is  the  chief  thing,  but 
where  is  a  matter  of  detail  which  affects  me  less.  I,  for  my  part, 

propose  the  Italian  lakes  or  Tyrol.     But  M would  prefer  to 

make  us  accompany  him  to  the  Caucasus  via  Constantinople.  I 
admit  that  this  is  very  tempting,  especially  as  he  assures  me  that 
it  would  not  be  very  expensive.  But  on  that  point  I  have  my 
doubts,  and  I  think  it  would  be  more  suitable  for  us  to  keep  to 
well-known  and  civilized  countries.  There  is  another  reason 
which,  to  my  mind,  is  in  favor  of  the  first  plan.  I  should  like, 
during  the  summer,  to  write  down  some  of  my  dreams  and 
fancies,  and  you  must  also  begin  to  work  after  three  months' 
rest.  This  is  only  possible  if  we  settle  down  in  some  quiet  place 
and  lead  a  regular  idyllic  life.  I  have  never  been  so  tempted  to 
write  romance  as  when  with  fat  M .  Despite  his  vast  propor- 
tions— which,  by  the  by,  are  quite  in  keeping  with  the  character 
of  a  Russian  boydr — he  is  still  the  most  perfect  hero  for  a  novel 
(a  realistic  novel,  of  course)  that  I  have  ever  met  with.  I  be- 
lieve that  he  is  also  a  good  critic,  with  a  touch  of  the  sacred 
fire. 

Nothing  came  of  our  plans  for  meeting  that  summer. 
Sonya  joined  her  new  Russian  friend  in  London  at  the 
end  of  May,  and  later  in  the  summer  she  went  to  the 
Harz  Mountains,  and  looked  up  Weierstrass  in  order 
to  get  his  advice  on  the  final  editing  of  her  work. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  265 

She  had  sent  it  in  the  spring  to  the  Academy  in  a 
half -finished  condition,  with  a  request  to  be  allowed  to 
send  in  a  fuller  definition  of  the  problem  before  the 
awarding  of  the  prize.  The  short  letters  which  I  re- 
ceived at  this  time  show  how  feverishly  she  was  at 
work  during  the  whole  spring.  A  note  from  Stock- 
holm was  addressed  jointly  to  my  brother  and  myself, 
as  we  were  then  together  in  Italy. 

MY  DEAR  FRIENDS  :  I  have  no  time  to  write  long  letters.  I 
am  working  as  hard  as  I  can,  and  indeed  as  hard  as  any  one 
could.  I  do  not  yet  know  whether  I  shall  have  time  to  finish 
my  treatise  or  not.  I  have  come  to  a  difficulty  which  I  cannot 
yet  get  over. 

Toward  the  close  of  May,  while  on  the  way  to 
London,  she  writes  the  following : 

BELOVED  ANNA  CARLOTTA  :  Here  I  sit  in  Hamburg,  waiting 
for  the  train  which  is  to  take  me  to  Flushing,  and  thence  I  go  to 
London.  You  can  hardly  imagine  what  a  delight  it  is  to  me  to 
be  mistress  of  myself  and  my  thoughts  once  more,  and  not  be 
obliged  to  concentrate  myself  forcibly  on  one  subject,  as  was  the 
«ase  during  the  last  few  weeks. 

During  her  visit  to  the  Harz  Mountains  she  often 
complained  of  the  restriction  her  work  exercised  on  her 
thoughts.  There  a  group  of  younger  mathematicians 
had  gathered  round  the  old  veteran  Weierstrass — Mit- 
tag  Leffler,  Hervitz,  Hetner,  and  others.  Of  course, 
among  so  many  representatives  of  the  same  science, 
much  interesting  conversation  took  place,  and  S6nya 
grumbled  that  she  was  obliged  to  sit  over  her  work 
instead  of  enjoying  this  interchange  of  thought.  She 
was  jealous  of  those  who  had  more  time  at  their  dis- 
posal to  receive  the  inspiration  imparted  by  the  ideas 
of  their  honored  and  beloved  teacher,  full  as  they  were 
of  new  light  on  the  subject  then  occupying  her  mind. 


266  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

Shortly  after  she  returned  to  Stockholm,  and  during 
the  autumn  months,  she  lived  in  a  perpetual  state  of 
overexcitement  and  exertion,  which  broke  down  her 
health  for  a  time. 

This  year  (1888)  was,  she  had  long  been  forewarned, 
to  bring  her  to  the  summit  of  success  and  happiness. 
It  bore  within  it,  also,  the  germ  of  all  the  sorrows  and 
misfortunes  which  were  to  break  upon  her  with  the 
new  year.  But  that  Christmas,  at  the  solemn  session 
of  the  French  Academy  of  Science,  she  received  in 
person  the  Prix  Bordin,  the  greatest  scientific  honor 
which  any  woman  has  ever  gained ;  one  of  the  great- 
est honors,  indeed,  to  which  any  one  can  aspire. 

The  man  in  whom  she  had  found  such  "  full  satis- 
faction," as  she  declared ;  in  whom  she  found  all  that 
her  soul  thirsted  for,  all  that  her  heart  desired,  was 
present  on  that  occasion.  At  that  supreme  moment 
all  she  had  dreamed  of  as  the  highest  joy  of  life  became 
hers.  Hers  was  the  highest  acknowledgment  of  her 
genius ;  hers  the  object  of  her  truest  devotion. 

But  she  was  the  princess  in  whose  cradle  the  fairies 
had  placed  all  good  gifts,  which  were  always  fated  to 
be  neutralized  by  the  baneful  gift  of  the  single  jealous 
fairy.  She  indeed  gained  all  that  she  most  desired, 
but  it  came  at  the  wrong  moment,  and  under  circum- 
stances which  embittered  it  to  her.  In  the  midst  of 
her  intense  striving  for  the  prize  which  her  scientific 
friends  knew  was  a  matter  of  honor  for  her  to  win, 
there  had  come  into  her  life  this  new  element — an 
element  for  which  she  had  often  longed. 

During  the  last  few  months  before  the  essay  was 
despatched  to  Paris  she  had  lived  in  a  frightful  state 
of  excitement,  torn  by  two  conflicting  claims — she 
was  at  once  a  woman  and  a  scientist.  Physically  she 
nearly  killed  herself  by  working  exclusively  at  night , 


A  BIOGRAPHY  267 

spiritually  she  was  racked  by  the  two  great  claims  now 
pressing  upon  her — the  one  requiring  her  to  finish  an 
intellectual  problem,  the  other  demanding  her  surren- 
der to  the  new  and  powerful  passion  which  possessed 
her.  It  is  a  conflict  which  every  one  must  undergo  in 
some  degree  who  gives  himself  up  to  creative  work. 
This  is  one  of  the  strongest  objections  that  can  be 
made  to  intellectual  talent  in  woman,  because  the  ex- 
ercise of  it  prevents  her  from  throwing  herself  entirely 
into  matters  of  affection,  such  as  every  man  demands 
of  his  wife. 

For  Sonya  it  was  in  any  case  a  terrible  trial  to  feel 
that  her  work  stood  in  the  way  between  her  and  the 
man  to  whom  she  would  fain  have  devoted  her  every 
thought.  She  felt  dimly,  though  she  never  gave  it  ex- 
pression in  words,  that  his  love  was  chilled  by  seeing 
her,  just  when  they  were  most  closely  drawn  together, 
engrossed  by  a  scheme  which  perhaps  seemed  to  him 
a  mere  ambitious  striving  for  honor  and  distinction, 
arising  from  pure  vanity. 

Such  an  honor  naturally  does  not  increase  a  woman's 
value  in  men's  eyes.  A  singer  or  an  actress,  covered 
with  laurels,  will  often  find  the  way  to  a  man's  heart 
in  spite  of  her  celebrity,  as  Sonya  often  remarked.  A 
beautiful  woman  is  admired  for  her  superior  beauty ; 
but  the  woman  who  studies  seriously  until  her  eyes  are 
red  and  her  brow  wrinkled,  in  order  to  win  an  academic 
prize — what  is  there  in  that  to  catch  a  man's  fancy  ? 
Sonya  said  to  herself,  with  bitterness  and  irony,  that 
she  had  acted  unwarrantably !  She  ought,  she  thought, 
to  have  sacrificed  her  ambition  and  vanity  for  that 
which  was  so  much  more  to  her  than  worldly  success. 
But  still  she  could  not  do  it.  To  withdraw  at  the  very 
verge  of  success  would  have  been  to  give  the  world  a 
striking  proof  of  woman's  incompetence.  The  force  of 


268  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

circumstances  and  her  own  nature  carried  her  forward 
to  the  goal  she  had  set  before  her.  Had  she  known 
what  the  delay  which  had  taken  place  in  finishing  her 
treatise  was  to  cost  her,  she  would  never  have  wasted 
precious  time  in  writing  "A  Struggle  for  Happiness," 
the  composing  of  which  made  her  own  struggle  for 
happiness  so  much  more  difficult  than  it  might  other- 
wise have  been. 

However,  she  arrived  in  Paris  and  received  the  prize.1 
She  was  the  heroine  of  the  hour.  Speeches  were  made 
in  her  honor,  which  she  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  in 
like  manner.  She  was  interviewed  and  received  visits 
all  day  long,  and  had  scarcely  a  moment  to  give  to  the 
man  who  had  come  thither  in  order  to  be  present  at 
her  triumph.  In  this  way  both  the  happiness  of  her 
love  and  the  triumph  of  her  ambition  were  spoiled. 
Separately  they  would  have  given  her  great  joy.  Her 
tragic  destiny  gave  her  all  she  desired  in  life,  but  under 
such  circumstances  that,  as  she  herself  complained,  the 
sweetness  was  turned  to  gall. 

But  perhaps  this  was  also  due  to  the  peculiarity  of 
her  nature,  divided  always  between  the  world  of  thought 
and  that  of  feeling ;  between  her  need  of  yielding  her- 
self to  another  and  her  need  of  having  herself  in  her 
own  keeping.  This  eternal  dualism  enters  of  necessity 
into  the  life  of  every  woman  of  genius,  as  soon  as  love 
arrives  and  makes  itself  felt  as  a  force. 

To  this  were  joined  the  complications  engendered  by 
S6nya's  jealous,  tyrannical  temperament.  She  exacted 
from  her  lover  such  absolute  devotion  and  self-abne- 
gation as  must  have  surpassed  the  powers  of  all  but 
a  few  very  exceptional  men.  On  the  other  hand,  she 
could  not  decide  to  cut  her  life  in  two  at  one  blow, 
surrender  her  work,  and  become  merely  a  wife. 

1  Appendix  I. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  269 

On  the  rocks  of  the  impossibility  of  reconciling  such 
different  claims,  their  love  suffered  its  final  shipwreck. 

About  this  time  Sonya  met  in  Paris  a  cousin  whom 
she  had  not  seen  since  she  was  a  girl.  He  was  a  rich 
proprietor  in  the  interior  of  Russia,  where  he  led  a 
happy  life  with  a  beloved  wife  and  large  family.  In 
his  youth  he  had  had  certain  artistic  inclinations,  which 
he  had  afterward  abandoned.  He  and  Sonya  now  talked 
much  about  their  early  aspirations.  He  beheld  her  in 
her  full  triumph,  surrounded  and  feted  as  the  heroine 
of  the  day,  and  that  in  Paris,  where  any  personal  tri- 
umph becomes  more  intoxicating  than  elsewhere.  No 
wonder  a  faint  f eeling  of  bitterness  came  over  S6nya's 
cousin  when  he  thought  of  his  own  life.  She  had  won 
all  of  which  they  had  dreamed.  But  he !  He  had 
sunk  into  a  mere  insignificant  country  gentleman,  and 
the  happy  father  of  a  family. 

Sonya  looked  at  his  handsome,  well-preserved  face, 
with  its  calm  and  restful  expression;  she  heard  him 
speak  of  his  wife  and  children,  and  thought  that  he  at 
least  had  found  happiness.  He  did  not  wear  himself 
out  with  complicated  questions ;  he  took  life  simply  as 
he  found  it. 

She  wished  to  found  a  story  on  this  meeting  and  this 
mood.  She  told  me  so,  and  I  regret  deeply  that  she 
found  no  time  to  write  it  when  full  of  her  personal 
philosophy. 

The  following  is  a  letter  of  this  period  addressed  to 
my  brother : 

DEAR  GOSTAV  :  I  have  just  this  minute  received  your  kind 
letter.  I  am  so  grateful  for  your  friendship.  Yes,  I  believe  it- 
is  the  only  good  thing  life  has  really  given  me  !  How  ashamed 
I  am  to  have  done  so  little  to  prove  to  you  how  much  I  value  it ! 
But  forgive  me.  I  am  not  at  this  moment  mistress  of  myself.  I 
receive  so  many  letters  of  congratulation,  and,  by  a  strange  irony 
of  fate,  I  have  never  felt  so  miserable  in  my  life.  Unhappy  as 


270  SONYA   KOVALfiVSKY 

a  dog;  but — I  hope,  for  the  dog's  sake,  it  is  not  so  unhappy  as 
human  beings  can  be.  Comme  les  homines,  surtout  comme  les 
femmes  peuvent  Vetre,  But  perhaps  I  shall  grow  more  sensible 
by  and  by.  I  shall  at  least  try.  I  will  attempt  to  begin  a  new 
work  and  interest  myself  in  practical  things.  I  shall,  of  course, 
be  led  entirely  by  your  advice,  and  do  whatever  you  wish.  At 
this  moment  all  I  can  manage  is  to  keep  my  sorrows  to  myself. 
I  take  care  to  make  no  mistakes  in  society,  nor  give  people  any 
opportunity  of  talking  about  me.  I  have  been  a  great  deal  this 
week  to  Bertrand  and  Menabrea ;  and  afterward  to  Count  Lew- 
enhaupt  and  Prince  Eugene,  etc.  But  to-day  I  feel  too  low  to 
be  able  to  describe  all  these  dinner-parties  to  you.  I  will  do  so 
another  time. 

When  I  return  to  my  rooms  I  do  nothing  but  walk  up  and 
down.  I  have  no  appetite,  neither  can  I  sleep.  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  should  care  to  go  away.  I  shall  decide  that  next 
week.  Good-by  for  to-day,  dear  Gostav.  Keep  your  friendship 
for  me.  I  am  in  sore  want  of  it ;  that  much  I  may  say.  Kiss 
Fousi  for  me,  and  thanks  for  all  your  care  of  her. 

Yours  most  affectionately, 

S6NYA. 

She  decided  to  leave  Paris  in  the  spring,  and  wrote 
to  me  from  there  in  French : 

Let  me  first  congratulate  you  on  the  joy  which  has  come  to 
you.  What  a  happy  "  child  of  the  sun  "  you  are  to  have  found 
so  great,  so  deep  a  love  at  your  age !  That  is  really  a  fate 
worthy  of  such  a  lucky  soul  as  yours.  But  it  has  always  been 
so.  You  were  "happiness,"  and  I  am,  and  most  likely  shall  al- 
ways be,  "struggle."  It  is  strange,  but  the  longer  I  live  the  more 
I  am  governed  by  the  feeling  of  fatalism,  or  rather  predestina- 
tion. The  feeling  of  free  will,  said  to  be  innate  in  man,  fails 
me  more  and  more.  I  feel  so  deeply  that,  however  much  I  may 
struggle,  I  cannot  change  my  fate  one  jot.  I  am  now  almost  re- 
signed. I  work  because  I  feel  I  am  at  the  worst.  I  can  neither 
wish  nor  hope  for  anything.  You  have  no  idea  how  indifferent 
I  am  to  everything. 

But  enough  about  me  !  Let  us  talk  of  something  else.  I  am 
glad  you  like  my  Polish  story.1  I  need  not  tell  you  how  delighted 

1  A  memory  of  her  youth,  written  in  French,  and  translated 
later  on  in  the  Nordistiflsclirift. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  271 

I  should  be  if  you  would  translate  it  into  Swedish.  But  I  should 
reproach  myself  with  taking  up  your  time,  which  you  might  em- 
ploy to  so  much  better  purpose.  I  have  also  written  a  long  story 
about  my  sister's  childhood,  her  youth,  and  her  first  steps  in 
a  literary  career ;  and  about  our  connection  with  Dostoe"  vsky. 
Just  now  I  am  busy  at  "Vse  Victis,"  which,  perhaps,  you  re- 
member. I  have  also  another  story  in  hand,  "  Les  Eevenants  " 
( "  Ghosts  "),  which  also  takes  up  much  time.  I  should  much 
like  you  to  give  me  full  powers  to  dispose  of  our  "  child,"  "  When 
Death  Shall  Be  No  More."  It  is  my  favorite  of  all  our  children, 
and  lately  I  have  often  thought  of  it.  I  have  found  an  admira- 
ble frame  for  it — Pasteur's  Institute.  I  have  lately  got,  quite 
accidentally,  to  know  all  about  the  departments  of  that  Insti- 
tute ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  all  this  might  be  put  together 
dramatically.  I  have  for  some  weeks  been  turning  over  in  my 
mind  a  plan  for  making  our  "child"  happy.  But  it  is  so  bold 
and  fantastic  that  I  do  not  like  to  carry  it  out  without  full 
powers  from  you. 

In  August  she  wrote  again  from  Sevres,  where  she 
stayed,  during  the  summer  months,  with  her  little 
daughter  and  some  Russian  friends : 

I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  Gostav,  telling  me  that  I 
shall  perhaps  meet  you  on  my  return  to  Sweden.  I  must  say  I  am 
selfish  enough  to  rejoice  with  all  my  heart.  I  am  so  impatient 
to  know  what  you  are  now  writing.  On  my  part,  I  have  a  great 
deal  I  should  like  to  show  you  and  tell  you.  Up  to  now,  thank 
God,  I  have  never  been  at  a  loss  for  a  subject  for  a  novel.  And 
at  this  moment  my  head  is  in  a  ferment  with  plots.  I  have  fin- 
ished "  Recollections  of  Childhood  "  ("  The  Raevsky  Sisters  ") ;  I 
have  written  the  preface  to  "Vse  Victis,"  and  I  have  commenced 
two  stories — who  knows  when  I  shall  have  time  to  finish  them ! 


XIII 

LITERARY  ENDEAVORS  —  TOGETHER  IN   PARIS 

IN  the  middle  of  September,  1889,  when  Sonya  re- 
turned to  Stockholm,  we  met  again  after  a  separa- 
tion of  nearly  two  years.  I  found  her  very  much 
changed.  Her  brilliant  wit  and  playfulness  had  dis- 
appeared. The  wrinkle  between  her  eyebrows  had 
deepened ;  her  expression  was  gloomy  and  abstracted. 
Even  her  eyes  had  lost  the  marvelous  luster  which  was 
their  chief  charm.  They  were  now  dull  and  sometimes 
squinted  slightly. 

S6nya  succeeded  in  hiding  from  her  less  intimate 
friends  her  real  feelings,  and,  to  them,  appeared  much 
the  same  as  before.  She  even  said  that  when  she  had 
felt  more  depressed  than  usual  in  society,  people  would 
remark  of  her  that  Madame  Kovalevsky  had  been 
really  quite  brilliant.  But  to  us,  who  knew  her  well, 
the  change  was  only  too  apparent.  She  had  lost  all 
wish  for  society,  not  only  of  strangers,  but  even  of  her 
friends.  She  could  not  remain  idle  for  a  moment,  and 
only  found  peace  in  hard  work.  She  recommenced  her 
lectures  from  a  sense  of  duty,  but  had  no  longer  any 
real  interest  in  them. 

It  was  in  literary  composition  that  she  now  sought 
an  outletfortheincreasingrestlessnesswhich  consumed 
her.  This  was  partly  because  such  work  had  points 
of  contact  with  her  own  inner  life,  and  partly  because 
she  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  overstrain  she  had 

272 


A  BIOGRAPHY  273 

undergone,  which  prevented  her  from  resuming  her 
scientific  studies.  She  now  began  again  to  revise  her 
"Vse  Victis,"  and  write  the  preface.  The  book  had 
been  translated  from  the  Russian  MS.,  and  published 
in  the  literary  calendar  Normann  for  that  year.  In 
it  there  is  a  short  passage  depicting  the  struggle  of 
nature,  the  awakening  from  the  long  winter  sleep  in 
spring.  But  it  is  not,  as  usual  in  such  compositions, 
written  in  praise  of  Spring.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the 
calm  restful  Winter  which  is  here  idealized.  Spring 
is  depicted  as  a  brutal,  sensual  being,  which  awakens 
great  hopes  only  to  disappoint  them. 

Sonya  intended  this  novel  to  be  part  of  her  own 
inner  history.  Few  women  have  become  more  cele- 
brated, or  been  so  surrounded  by  outer  success.  Yet 
in  this  novel  she  depicts  the  story  of  defeat,  because 
she  felt  herself  defeated,  in  spite  of  her  triumphs,  in 
her  struggle  for  happiness ;  and  her  sympathies  were 
rather  with  those  who  succumb  than  with  those  who 
conquer. 

This  deep  feeling  for  suffering  was  very  character- 
istic of  her.  It  was  not  the  ordinary  "  charity  "  of  the 
Christian.  It  was  that  she  made  the  sufferings  of  others 
her  own,  not  with  the  superiority  which  strives  to  con- 
sole, but  with  the  sympathy  that  is  the  outcome  of  de- 
spair— despair  at  the  cruelty  of  life.  Sonya  always 
said  that  what  she  most  loved  in  the  Greek  religion,  in 
which  she  had  been  educated,  and  for  which  she  never 
quite  lost  her  veneration,  was  its  sympathy  for  suffer- 
ing, which  is  much  more  emphasized  in  this  than  in  any 
other  form  of  religion.  In  literature  she  was  always 
most  touched  by  this  note  in  any  writer,  and  it  is  in 
Russian  literature  that  the  feeling  has  found  its  most 
beautiful  expression. 

Sonya  now  began  to  put  the  finishing  touches  to  the 

18 


274  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

books  which  contained  the  memories  of  her  childhood, 
and  which  Froken  (Miss)  Hedberg  had  translated  from 
the  Russian. 

In  the  evenings,  in  our  own  family  circle,  these 
books  were  read  aloud,  chapter  after  chapter,  as  soon 
as  they  were  translated.  In  spite  of  the  melancholy 
mood  which  had  overcome  both  Sonya  and  myself, 
that  autumn  was  still  full  of  interest  in  consequence 
of  her  great  eagerness  for  work — an  eagerness  felt  by 
both,  though  we  were  no  longer  in  collaboration. 

During  October  and  November  I  wrote  five  new 
tales,  which,  together  with  S6nya's,  were  read  aloud  in 
the  family  circle.  We  were  very  happy  in  each  other's 
work.  We  went  together  to  the  publishers,  and  our 
books — Sonya's  "Raevsky  Sisters"  ("Recollections  of 
Childhood")  and  my  "From  Life :  No.  III." — appeared 
simultaneously.  It  was  a  faint  reflection  of  our  work 
together  in  earlier  days. 

Sonya  had  intended  to  publish  her  memoirs  in  a  defi- 
nite autobiographical  form,  and  it  was  in  that  style 
that  she  wrote  them  in  Russian.  But  as  soon  as  we 
had  read  the  first  chapter  we  dissuaded  her  from  the 
attempt.  We  considered  that,  in  a  small  community 
such  as  ours,  it  would  shock  people  if  a  still  unknown 
writer  sat  down  and  wrote,  without  disguise,  all  the 
most  intimate  details  of  her  family  life  for  the  benefit 
of  the  public. 

The  whole  was  written  in  Russian,  and  several  chap- 
ters already  translated,  when  she  turned  the  autobi- 
ography into  a  novel  called  "Tanya."1  From  that 
moment  we  had  little  or  nothing  to  object  to,  and 
could  only  express  our  astonishment  on  finding  that, 
at  one  stroke,  our  friend  had  become  an  artist  in  lit- 
erature. 

1  Appendix  J. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  275 

While  our  books  were  going  through  the  press  we 
once  more  attempted  a  work  in  collaboration. 

S6nya,  during  her  last  visit  to  Russia,  had  found 
in  her  sister's  desk  the  MS.  of  a  drama  which  Aniuta 
had  written  many  years  previously.  It  had  met  with 
warm  approval  from  some  of  the  best  literary  critics 
in  Russia,  but  it  was  not  ready  for  the  stage.  It  con- 
tained scenes  full  of  inspiration.  The  delineation  of 
character  was  admirable,  and  throughout  there  lay  in 
it  a  wonderfully  deep,  melancholy  spirit.  It  had,  be- 
sides, a  very  strong  Russian  local  coloring. 

When  Sonya  read  it  to  me  in  full  translation  I  at 
once  felt  that  it  was  worth  revising  in  order  to  offer 
it  to  the  Swedish  stage.  Sonya,  moreover,  ever  since 
her  sister's  death,  had  felt  a  keen  desire  to  make  some 
of  her  works  known.  It  pained  her  to  remember  how 
Aniuta's  rich  gifts  had  been  repressed  in  their  devel- 
opment, and  she  found  a  kind  of  consolation  in  the 
thought  of  obtaining  for  her  sister  at  least  a  posthu- 
mous fame.  We  set  to  work.  We  discussed  scene 
after  scene,  act  after  act,  and  agreed  as  to  what  altera- 
tions were  necessary.  Sonya  sketched  the  drama  in 
Russian,  and  added  nearly  a  whole  act,  thus  making 
her  first  attempt  in  dramatic  dialogue.  She  then  dic- 
tated it  to  me  in  her  broken  Swedish,  and  I  put  it  into 
shape  as  I  wrote  it  down. 

But  it  seemed  as  though  no  form  of  collaboration 
could  succeed.  We  read  the  new  drama  to  a  select 
circle  of  literary  and  artistic  friends  in  Sonya's  red 
drawing-room.  It  had,  after  much  deliberation,  re- 
ceived the  somewhat  clumsy  title  of  "  Till  and  After 
Death."  The  opinion  of  our  friends  was  not  very  en- 
couraging. They  found  the  drama  too  monotonously 
gloomy.  They  did  not  think  it  would  be  successful 
on  the  stage. 


276  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

Meanwhile  Sonya  and  I  had  each  many  personal 
cares,  and  now  that  Christmas  was  approaching  we 
had  to  consider  where  we  should  spend  that  holiday. 
Neither  of  us  had  the  heart  to  spend  it  at  home.  Stock- 
holm was  hateful  to  us  both,  but  for  different  reasons. 
So  we  finally  decided  to  try  and  realize  our  old  plan 
of  traveling  together,  as  we  had  never  yet  managed  to 
do.  After  many  suggestions  of  places,  we  decided  on 
going  to  Paris.  There,  we  thought,  we  could,  more 
easily  than  anywhere,  come  into  contact  with  literary 
and  theatrical  people.  And  we  hoped  to  divert  our 
thoughts  from  our  own  personal  worries.  We  left 
Stockholm  in  the  beginning  of  December. 

But  how  different  was  this  journey  from  what  we 
had  been  used  to  plan !  We  neither  of  us  expected  to 
enjoy  this  journey.  It  was  only  intended  as  a  kind  of 
morphine — to  deaden  our  thoughts.  We  sat  silent  and 
sad,  staring  at  each  other,  and  feeling  that  our  indi- 
vidual melancholy  was  increased  by  that  which  each 
saw  in  the  face  of  the  other.  We  spent  a  couple  of 
days  at  Copenhagen,  and  called  on  some  friends  and 
acquaintances.  They  were  all  astonished  at  the  change 
in  Sonya.  She  had  grown  much  thinner.  Her  face 
was  much  wrinkled,  her  cheeks  were  hollow,  and  she 
had,  besides,  a  bad  cough,  caught  during  the  influenza 
epidemic  which  had  raged  in  Stockholm.  She  took  no 
care  of  herself,  and  it  was  a  wonder  that  she  recovered 
at  all.  One  day,  when  she  had  received  a  letter  which 
excited  her,  she  got  out  of  bed,  when  she  lay  in  a  high 
fever,  and,  half  dressed  and  in  thin  shoes,  went  out  into 
the  cold,  wet  snow.  She  came  back  drenched  to  the 
skin,  and  sat  without  changing  her  clothes  till  night- 
fall. "  You  see,"  she  said  to  me  when  I  entreated  her 
to  take  more  care,  "I  am  not  even  lucky  enough  to 
take  a  serious  illness.  Do  not  be  frightened.  Life  will 


A  BIOGRAPHY  277 

spare  me.  I  should  only  be  too  lucky  to  have  done 
with  it,  but  such  happiness  will  not  fall  to  my  lot." 

"While,  as  we  traveled  through  from  Copenhagen  to 
Paris,  we  sat  together  motionless  in  the  railway-car- 
riage, Sonya  said,  over  and  over  again : 

"  Just  think  if  the  train  which  is  passing  should  run 
off  the  line  and  crush  us !  Railway  accidents  happen 
so  often.  Why  cannot  one  happen  now  ?  Why  can- 
not fate  take  pity  on  me  ? " 

During  the  long  days  and  nights  she  spoke  unceas- 
ingly of  her  own  life,  her  own  fate.  She  talked  more 
to  herself  than  to  me.  She  went  through  a  kind  of 
self-examination,  as  though  seeking  the  reason  why  she 
must  be  always  suffering  and  unhappy ;  why  could  she 
never  get  what  she  wanted — illimitable  love  ?  "Why, 
why  can  no  one  love  me  ?"  she  cried,  again  and  again. 
"I  could  be  more  to  a  man  than  most  women — and 
why  are  the  most  insignificant  women  loved  while  I 
remain  unloved  ? " 

I  tried  to  explain.  She  asked  too  much.  She  was 
not  one  to  be  content  with  the  kind  of  love  that  may 
fall  to  any  woman's  lot.  She  was  too  introspective. 
She  brooded  too  much  about  herself,  and  had  not  the 
kind  of  devotion  which  forgets  itself.  Her  devotion 
demanded  as  much  as  it  gave,  and  unceasingly  worried 
itself  and  its  object  by  considering  and  weighing  all 
that  it  received. 

How  melancholy  was  our  arrival  at  Paris  !  We  had 
often  pictured  it  as  so  bright !  We  drove  straight  from 
the  station  to  Nielsen's  Library,  in  order  to  ask  for  let- 
ters which  we  were  expecting  with  impatience.  They 
had  arrived,  and  gave  us  sufficient  food  for  thought. 
I  had  only  been  once  before  in  Paris,  and  then  only 
for  a  short  time  on  my  return  from  London  in  1884. 
I  asked  Sonya  about  the  palaces  and  squares  which 

18* 


278  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

we  drove  past  on  our  way  to  the  hotel  near  the  Place 
de  1'Etoile,  but  she  answered  impatiently,  "  I  do  not 
know.  I  know  nothing  about  these  places.  I  cannot 
tell  which  is  which." 

The  Tuileries,  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  the  Palais 
de  PIndustrie,  awakened  no  recollections  in  her,  nor 
made  any  impression.  Paris,  great  and  gay,  which 
had  always  been  her  favorite  city,  the  place  she  would 
have  chosen  to  live  in  had  she  had  the  choice,  was  to 
her  at  this  moment  a  dead  mass  of  dull  buildings. 
She  had  not  received  a  letter  from  Mm,  and  only  one 
from  a  friend,  whose  news  was  anything  but  satisfac- 
tory— that  was  why  Paris  was  dull. 

We  spent  some  feverish,  strangely  restless  weeks  in 
the  place  where,  the  year  before,  S6nya  had  received 
so  much  adulation  and  honorable  distinction.  But 
now  scientific  Paris  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her. 
She  had  had  her  "  quarter  of  an  hour." 

We  looked  up  our  friends,  made  new  acquaintances, 
and  ran  about  from  morning  to  night,  but  not  as  tour- 
ists. Of  the  city  and  its  sights  I  saw  nothing — not 
even  the  Eiffel  Tower.  We  were  only  interested  in 
studying  people  and  theaters,  trying  to  get  into  the 
whirlpool,  and  to  find  the  necessary  stimulus  for  our 
intended  literary  work. 

The  circle  of  our  acquaintance  was  varied,  and  on 
some  days  curiously  mixed.  All  nations  and  all  types 
were  represented  in  our  rooms.  A  Russo- Jewish  family 
and  a  French  banker's  family  lived  in  the  palaces  of 
former  aristocrats.  Their  footmen  wore  knee-breeches 
and  silk  stockings,  and  the  whole  turnout  was  in  a 
high  style  of  luxury.  Among  our  friends,  besides, 
were  Swedish  and  Russian  scientists,  some  of  the  lat- 
ter being  ladies ;  Polish  emigrants  and  conspirators ; 
French  literary  men  and  women ;  and  several  Scandi- 


A  BIOGRAPHY  279 

navians — Jonas  Lie,  Walter  Runeberg,  Knut  Wichsel, 
Ida  Ericson,  and  other  scientists  and  authors. 

Sonya,  of  course,  called  on  some  of  the  leading 
mathematicians  in  Paris,  and  received  invitations  from 
them.  But  at  the  moment  her  head  was  full  of  any- 
thing but  science,  and  consequently  she  was  less  inter- 
ested than  usual  in  such  society.  Among  the  interest- 
ing figures  in  our  circle  I  must  specially  mention  the 
afterward  famous  Padlevsky.  He  was  a  sickly  young 
man,  about  whom  still  lingered  the  air  of  a  prison.  He 
spoke  French  badly.  He  at  once  interested  us  by  the 
vehemence  and  enthusiasm  with  which  he  had  embraced 
revolutionary  principles.  He  seemed  to  us  to  be  boil- 
ing with  impatience  to  be  once  more  in  danger.  He 
evidently  loved  martyrdom;  and  imprisonment,  in 
which  state  he  had  passed  so  much  of  his  youth,  had 
no  horrors  for  him.  His  father  had  been  executed 
during  the  Polish  revolution ;  his  brother  had  died  a 
horrible  death  in  the  Peter-Paul  Fortress  of  terrible 
fame.  In  order  to  save  her  youngest  son  from  a  like 
fate,  and  get  him  away  from  the  influence  which  had 
seduced  his  father  and  brother,  his  aged  mother  took 
him  to  Germany.  But  all  in  vain.  Revolution  was  in 
his  blood,  and  before  he  was  twenty  he  was  a  political 
prisoner.  He  escaped,  and  passed  through  countless 
adventures.  Just  now  it  seemed  that  he  had  nothing 
in  prospect.  But  he  did  not  conceal  his  readiness  to 
fling  himself  again  into  the  furnace  of  revolt  at  the 
very  first  opportunity.  These  facts  of  his  life  I  relate 
as  told  to  me  by  Sonya.  As  a  private  individual,  Pad- 
levsky was  most  sweet  and  winning,  gentle  and  charm- 
ing in  his  ways.  He  was  absolutely  without  means  of 
livelihood.  I  believe  conspiracy  was  his  only  profes- 
sion. But  he  was  constantly  the  guest  of  the  richer 
members  of  his  party. 


280  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

It  was  of  deep  interest  to  me  to  make  acquaintance 
with  the  strange  group  of  enthusiastic  patriots  who 
lost  themselves  so  entirely  in  the  love  of  their  coun- 
try; who  sorrowed  so  deeply  over  its  misfortunes; 
who  so  longed  to  save  it  that  what  the  ordinary  com- 
munity called  crime  was  to  them  a  sacred  duty. 

Just  at  this  time  a  great  English  newspaper  pub- 
lished a  horrible  account  of  the  cruelties  which  Siberian 
prisoners,  and  among  them  some  highly  educated  Eng- 
lish ladies,  had  had  to  undergo. 

There  was  something  deeply  touching  in  the  sorrow 
which  the  intelligence  aroused  in  the  Polo-Russian 
clique  in  Paris.  It  seemed  as  though  its  members 
had  suffered  personally.  The  sympathy  of  the  clique 
with  the  Russian  martyrs  of  the  Tzar's  cruelty  was  so 
strong  that  to  all  intents  and  purposes  they  were  but 
one  family. 

The  center  of  that  clique  was  one  of  Sonya's  most 
intimate  friends — a  woman  whom  she  admired  more 
than  any  other,  and  who  impressed  her  so  greatly  that 
she  lost  all  her  critical  judgment  in  regarding  her. 
S6nya  admired  this  woman  with  the  jealous  adoration 
characteristic  of  her.  This  friend  possessed  several  of 
the  qualities  which  S6nya  herself  desired  and  envied 
— beauty,  a  rare  power  of  fascination,  and  an  equally 
rare  talent  for  dressing  in  perfect  taste.  While  in  Paris, 
Sonya  used  to  get  this  friend  to  choose  her  dresses  for 
her,  but  they  never  looked  so  well  on  her  as  on  the 
charming  Pole. 

The  latter  had  a  gift  for  attracting  a  small  court  of 
admirers,  who  vied  with  one  another  in  winning  a  smile 
from  her.  But  S6nya  admired  in  this  friend  least  what 
the  others  admired  most — her  genius,  intelligence,  and 
courage.  A  genius  not  creative  in  its  nature  had  no 
attractions  for  S6nya. 


A  BIOGEAPHY  281 

As  to  courage, — that  is,  moral  courage, —  Sonya  con- 
sidered that,  if  tried  as  her  friend  had  been,  she  would 
prove  to  have  just  as  great  an  amount  of  it. 

The  lif  e  this  friend,  Madame  J ,  now  lived — when 

all  the  storms  and  the  trouble  of  her  past  life  were 
over  for  the  moment — seemed  to  Sonya  the  ideal  of 
happiness.  Recently  married  to  a  man  who  adored 
her;  surrounded  by  a  sympathizing  and  admiring 
circle  of  friends  in  whose  sight  she  was  a  queen ;  the 
mistress  of  a  hospitable  mansion  open  to  all  friends ; 
living  in  Paris  in  the  very  midst  of  the  intellectual 
movement  of  the  time,  and  inspired  by  a  mission  in 

which  she  intensely  believed,  Madame  J was,  in 

Sonya's  opinion,  in  a  position  of  supreme  and  ideal 
happiness. 

In  this  circle,  so  sympathetic  to  her  feelings,  Sonya 
became  open-hearted.  I  had  never  seen  her  so  com- 
municative, except  when  in  private  conversation.  She 
spoke  openly  of  her  dissatisfaction  with  life ;  of  her 
sterile  triumphs  in  science.  She  said  she  would  will- 
ingly exchange  all  the  celebrity  she  had  won,  all  the 
triumphs  of  her  intellect,  for  the  lot  of  the  most  in- 
significant woman  who  lived  in  her  proper  circle — a 
circle  of  which  she  was  the  center,  and  in  which  she 
was  beloved. 

But  Sonya  noticed  with  some  bitterness  that  no  one 
believed  her  statement.  All  her  friends  thought  her 
more  ambitious  than  affectionate  or  sensitive,  and  they 
laughed  at  her  words  as  though  she  were  but  indulg- 
ing in  one  of  her  paradoxes. 

The  Norwegian  author,  Jonas  Lie,  was  the  only  per- 
son who  understood  Sonya  fully.  Once,  in  a  little 
speech  he  made,  he  showed  his  comprehension  of  her 
so  plainly  that  she  was  moved  to  tears.  It  was  on 
one  of  the  pleasantest  of  our  Paris  days.  We  were 


282  S6NYA   KOVALfiVSKY 

dining  with  Jonas  Lie ;  and  Grieg  and  his  wife,  who 
were  just  then  enjoying  their  triumph  at  Paris,  were 
present.  There  was  about  this  little  dinner  the  inde- 
scribable festive  feeling  which  sometimes  springs  up 
in  a  small  circle  when  each  person  present  is  pleased 
to  see  the  other,  and  all  feel  themselves  to  be  fully 
understood  and  appreciated.  Jonas  Lie  was  in  high 
spirits.  He  made  one  speech  after  the  other,  bright 
and  sparkling,  and  full  of  imagination,  and  yet  withal 
— as  was  his  wont — somewhat  involved  and  obscure. 
The  spontaneity  and  poetic  fervor  inherent  in  all  his 
utterances  gave  to  his  cordiality  a  special  charm.  He 
spoke  of  S6nya,  not  as  the  great  mathematician,  nor 
even  as  the  successful  author,  but  as  the  little  "  Tanya 
Raevsky,"  whom  he  said  he  had  learned  to  love  so  truly, 
and  for  whom  he  felt  so  great  a  sympathy.  He  said 
he  was  so  sorry  for  the  poor  little  misunderstood  child 
who  so  longed  for  tenderness.  He  doubted,  he  said, 
whether  she  had  ever  been  understood.  Life,  he  had 
heard,  had  lavished  on  her  every  gift  upon  which  she 
set  no  value ;  had  given  her  honors,  distinction,  and 
success.  But  it  had  denied  her  what  she  most  wanted. 
She  still  remained  standing  there  with  great,  wide-open 
eyes,  yearning  for  a  touch  of  tenderness.  There  she 
stood,  with  her  empty  outstretched  hands.  What  did 
she  want  ?  Only  an  orange.  "  Thank  you,  Mr.  Lie," 
Sonya  murmured,  in  accents  deeply  moved  and  choked 
with  tears.  "  I  have  had  many  speeches  made  about 
me  in  my  life,  but  never  one  so  beautiful."  She  could 
say  no  more.  She  sat  down — for  she  had  risen  in  the 
impulse  of  the  moment —  and  tried  to  conquer  her  emo- 
tion by  drinking  a  glass  of  water. 

When  we  left  Lie's  house,  Sonya  was  in  a  brighter 
mood  than  she  had  been  for  many  a  day.  She  felt 
that  there  existed  at  least  one  person  who  understood 


A  BIOGRAPHY  283 

her,  though  he  had  seen  her  but  a  few  times,  and  knew 
nothing  of  her  private  circumstances.  He  had  pene- 
trated further  into  her  inmost  soul  by  merely  reading 
her  book  than  her  most  intimate  friends  had  done, 
though  they  had  known  her  for  years.  Now,  after  all, 
she  felt  that  there  was  some  pleasure  in  writing,  and, 
after  all,  life  was  worth  living. 

We  had  intended  to  go  straight  from  Lie's  house 
to  another  friend,  and  not  run  home  between  whiles. 
But  Sonya  was  always  expecting  letters,  and  was  never 
happy  if  away  from  the  hotel  for  many  hours  at  a  time. 
So  we  returned  home,  taking  a  circuitous  road  to  the 
hotel  in  order  to  ask  the  eternal  question,  Are  there 
any  letters  ?  The  next  moment  Sonya  had  clutched 
the  letter  which  lay  close  to  the  key  of  our  rooms,  and 
rushed  up  the  flight  of  stairs. 

I  followed  her  slowly,  and  went  straight  to  my  own 
room,  for  I  did  not  want  to  disturb  her. 

Almost  immediately  she  came  to  me,  threw  her  arms 
around  my  neck,  laughed,  danced  round  me,  and  then 
flung  herself  down  on  the  sofa,  almost  shouting  with 
delight. 

"  Oh,  what  happiness ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  cannot 
bear  it !  I  shall  die  of  joy !  " 

The  letter  explained  and  did  away  with  an  unfor- 
tunate misunderstanding — one  which  had  worried  her 
for  months,  and  had  worn  her  to  a  shadow.  The  very 
next  evening  she  left  Paris  in  order  to  meet  the  man 
on  whom  her  whole  existence  depended. 


XIV 

THE   FLAME   BURNS 

A  COUPLE  of  days  after  Sonya's  departure  I  re- 
ceived a  few  lines  from  her.     Already  the  spark 
of  happiness,  which  had  flamed  up  so  brightly  and  in- 
spired most  extravagant  hopes,  had  died  out.     I  have 
not  kept  her  letter,  but  I  remember  the  main  contents : 

I  see  [she  wrote]  that  he  and  I  will  never  understand  each 
other.  I  shall  return  to  my  work  at  Stockholm.  In  future  my 
only  consolation  will  be  work. 

That  was  all.  During  the  remainder  of  that  winter, 
and  all  next  spring,  I  had  not  a  line  from  her,  except 
a  few  heartfelt  words  of  congratulation  on  my  mar- 
riage in  May. 

She  suffered,  and  avoided  showing  me  her  sorrows, 
not  wishing  to  disturb  my  happiness.  She  could  never 
make  up  her  mind  to  write  on  indifferent  matters. 
Therefore  she  kept  silence.  But  this  reticence,  after 
our  recent  intimacy,  wounded  me  deeply.  Afterward 
I  well  understood  that  she  could  not  have  acted  other- 
wise. 

In  the  April  of  that  year  (1890)  Sonya  went  to  Russia. 
She  had  rather  expected  to  be  elected  a  member  of 
the  Academy  of  Sciences  at  St.  Petersburg,  the  most 
advantageous  position  which  she  could  have  acquired. 
It  would  have  yielded  her  a  large  salary,  and  no  duties 
beyond  a  two-months'  yearly  residence  in  St.  Peters- 
burg. To  be  a  member  of  the  Academy  is  the  great- 

284 


A  BIOGRAPHY  285 

est  honor  to  which  any  Russian  scientist  can  attain. 
Sonya  had  built  her  hopes  on  obtaining  it.  She  would 
have  then  been  delivered  from  the  insufferable  yoke  of 
Stockholm  life,  and  her  wish  to  settle  in  Paris  could 
have  been  realized. 

During  our  stay  in  that  city  she  had  often  said  to 
me,  "  If  you  cannot  have  the  best  in  life,  namely,  true 
heart-happiness,  life  may  be  bearable  if  you  get  the 
next  best  thing — an  intellectual  atmosphere  in  which 
you  can  breathe  and  nourish.  But  to  have  neither  is 
insufferable." 

She  now  fancied  that  if  she  were  elected  a  member 
of  the  Academy  she  might  be  reconciled  to  life.  I 
could  not  guess  whether  her  plans  would  prosper,  nor 
did  I  ever  know  where  she  was  going  after  leaving 
St.  Petersburg.  She  was  very  mysterious  about  her 
plans  for  that  spring,  mentioning  them  to  no  one.  I 
met  her  by  chance,  however,  in  Berlin  in  the  middle  of 
June.  I  was  then  en  route  for  Sweden,  whither  I  was 
returning  with  my  husband  shortly  after  our  marriage. 
Sonya  had  arrived  the  same  day  from  St.  Petersburg. 

I  found  her  in  an  unnaturally  excitable  state  of 
mind — a  mood  which  a  stranger  might  easily  have 
mistaken  for  light-heartedness.  I  knew  her  too  well 
not  to  realize  that  sorrow  crouched  behind  it.  She 
had  been  feted  at  Helsingf ors  and  St.  Petersburg ;  she 
had  been  hurried  from  place  to  place ;  had  met  the 
most  interesting  people,  and  had  made  a  speech  before 
a  thousand  listeners.  She  assured  me  that  she  had 
enjoyed  herself  immensely,  and  had  good  expectations ; 
but  she  continued  to  be  mysterious  and  to  shun  all  in- 
timacy, carefully  avoiding  remaining  alone  with  me, 
for  fear  of  being  searchingly  questioned. 

We  spent,  however,  some  cheerful  days  together, 
filled  with  jesting  and  small  talk.  Still  she  impressed 


286  SONYA  KOVALEVSKY 

me  painfully,  for  I  saw  how  nervous  and  overexcited 
she  really  was,  and  how  utterly  out  of  tune.  The  only 
thing  she  said  to  me  about  her  personal  concerns  was 
that  she  never  intended  to  marry  again;  that  she 
would  not  be  so  commonplace ;  she  would  not  do  as 
other  women  did — forsake  her  work  and  mission  in 
order  to  marry  as  soon  as  she  had  a  chance.  She  did 
not  want  to  leave  her  post  at  Stockholm  until  she  had 
won  such  a  sure  position  as  an  author  that  she  could 
support  herself  by  her  writings.  She  did  not  deny 

that  she  wished  to  meet  and  travel  with  M ,  who 

was  to  her  the  best  of  friends  and  comrades. 

A  few  months  later  we  again  met  at  Stockholm, 
where  she  had  resumed  her  lectures  in  September. 
Once  more  her  forced  gaiety  had  vanished.  She  was 
still  more  out  of  sorts,  and  troubled  with  an  increasing 
restlessness.  I  had  no  opportunity  of  seeing  deeper 
into  her  heart.  She  hid  her  feelings  from  me.  She 
continued  to  shun  a  tete-d-tete,  and,  on  the  whole,  showed 
herself  more  or  less  indifferent  to  all  who  formerly  had 
been  her  most  intimate  friends.  It  was  evident  that 
her  heart  was  elsewhere,  and  that  she  felt  these  months 
at  Stockholm  as  a  kind  of  banishment.  She  counted 
the  days  that  must  pass  before  the  Christmas  holidays, 
when  she  meant  to  travel.  She  was  in  a  desperate  con- 
dition. She  could  neither  manage  to  live  without  or 

with  M .  Thus  her  life  had  lost  its  balance.  She 

was  like  an  uprooted  plant — could  not  strike  root 
again,  and  seemed  to  wither  away. 

When  my  brother  removed  to  Djursholm,  in  the  villa 
quarter  of  Stockholm,  he  tried  to  persuade  Sonya  to 
come  to  the  same  neighborhood.  She  had  always  liked 
to  live  near  him,  so  that  they  might  meet  as  often  as 
possible.  But  though  my  brother's  removal  to  new 
quarters  was  a  great  trial  to  her,  and  she  felt  more 


A  BIOGRAPHY  287 

lonely  than  ever,  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to 
move. 

"  Who  knows  how  long  I  shall  stay  in  Stockholm  ? 
This  cannot  last  forever ! "  she  often  exclaimed.  "And 
if  I  am  in  Stockholm  next  winter  I  shall  be  in  such 
bad  spirits  that  you  will  not  care  to  see  much  of  me." 

She  could  not  be  induced  to  go  and  see  Mittag  Leffler's 
new  villa  when  it  was  being  built.  She  took  no  inter- 
est in  it,  and  did  not  wish  to  enter  the  new  home  of 
one  of  her  most  intimate  friends  in  such  a  spirit  of 
indifference.  And  when  others  in  her  company  went 
to  see  the  rooms,  she  insisted  on  waiting  without  at 
the  door. 

A  feeling  of  the  fleeting,  evanescent  nature  of  her 
sojourn  in  Stockholm  was  growing  upon  her.  She  be- 
gan to  let  drop  all  the  ties  that  bound  her  to  the  place. 
She  neglected  her  friends,  withdrew  from  society,  and 
was  more  than  ever  indifferent  to  her  house  and  dress. 
All  the  inspiration  and  soul  had  even  died  out  of  her 
conversation.  The  former  heartfelt  interest  she  had 
taken  in  all  spheres  of  human  life  and  human  thought 
had  faded.  She  was  entirely  engrossed  by  the  tragedy 
of  her  life. 


XV 

THE  END 

THE  last  time  I  saw  S6nya  alive  was  in  the  same 
year  (1890).  She  had  come  to  say  good-by  to  us 
at  Djursholm  before  she  went  to  Nice.  No  forebod- 
ings told  us  that  this  was  to  be  the  last  farewell. 

My  husband,  Sonya,  and  I  had  agreed  to  meet  at 
Genoa  directly  after  Christmas,  so  we  said  but  short 
farewells.  But  the  plan  was  not  carried  out,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  misdirected  telegram,  which  was  intended 
to  meet  us  on  our  return  to  Italy.  While  Sonya  and 
her  companion  were  waiting  for  us,  we  passed  through 
the  town  in  which  they  were  staying  without  knowing 
they  were  there. 

New- Year's  Day — which  we  had  hoped  to  spend  to- 
gether— was  passed  by  Sonya  and  her  friend  in  going 
to  the  lovely  marble  dwelling  of  the  dead  at  Genoa. 
While  there  a  sudden  shadow  flitted  across  Soiiya's 
face,  and  she  said,  with  prophetic  emphasis :  "  One  of 
us  will  not  survive  this  year,  for  we  have  spent  its  first 
day  in  a  burial-ground  !  " 

A  few  weeks  later  Sonya  was  on  her  way  back  to 
Stockholm.  The  voyage  she  so  hated  was  this  time 
not  only  to  be  a  trying,  but  also  a  fatal  one. 

With  a  heart  wounded  once  more  by  the  pain  of 
separation,  feeling  that  the  torture  was  almost  killing 
her,  S6nya  sat  in  the  railway-carriage  lost  in  despair. 
These  bitter-cold  winter  days  differed  so  cruelly  from 

288 


A  BIOGRAPHY  289 

the  mild  and  fragrant  air  she  had  left  behind  in  Italy. 
The  contrast  between  the  Mediterranean  and  the  north- 
ern cold  had  now  become  symbolic  to  her.  She  began 
to  hate  the  cold  and  darkness  as  intensely  as  she  loved 
sunshine  and  flowers. 

Her  journey  was  also  physically  more  than  usually 
disagreeable  to  her.  A  strange  contrariety  of  fate  made 
her  fail  to  take  the  shortest  and  most  convenient  route 
from  Berlin,  where  she  had  spent  a  few  days.  An  epi- 
demic of  smallpox  had  broken  out  at  Copenhagen,  and 
as  she  was  mortally  afraid  of  this  disease,  she  would 
not  risk  a  single  night  in  that  town. 

She  therefore  took  the  long  and  troublesome  route 
across  the  Danish  islands.  The  never-ending  change 
of  trains  in  bad  weather  was  very  likely  one  of  the 
causes  of  the  severe  chill  which  she  caught. 

At  Frederigia,  where  she  arrived  late  at  night  in  pelt- 
ing rain  and  storm,  she  had  no  Danish  coin  by  her, 
and  therefore  could  not  hire  a  porter;  so  she  carried 
her  luggage  herself,  dead-tired  and  frozen  as  she  was, 
and  so  dispirited  that  she  was  ready  to  faint.  When 
she  arrived  at  Stockholm  on  the  morning  of  February 
4th  she  felt  very  ill.  Nevertheless  she  worked  the 
whole  of  the  next  day  (Thursday),  and  gave  her  lec- 
ture on  Friday,  February  6th.  She  was  always  very 
plucky,  and  never  missed  a  lecture  if  it  were  possible 
for  her  to  stand.  That  evening  she  went  to  a  party 
at  the  Observatory.  There  she  began  to  feel  feverish 
and  went  away  alone,  but  could  not  get  a  cab.  Un- 
practical as  she  always  was  in  such  matters,  and  never 
knowing  her  way  about  Stockholm,  she  got  into  the 
wrong  omnibus,  and  in  consequence  had  to  go  a  long 
way  about  on  that  cold,  raw  evening.  When  she 
reached  home — alone,  helpless,  trembling  with  fever, 
with  mortal  sorrow  in  her  heart — she  sat  down  in  the 

19 


290  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

cold  night,  feeling  the  violence  of  the  illness  which 
had  attacked  her.  That  very  morning  she  had  told 
my  brother,  who  was  Rector  of  the  University,  that 
she  must  have  leave  of  absence  during  the  following 
April,  on  whatever  terms  she  could  obtain  it.1 

Each  time  she  had  returned  to  Stockholm  her  only 
consolation  in  the  midst  of  her  despair  had  been  to 
make  plans  for  the  future.  Between  times  she  tried 
to  numb  her  sorrow  and  restlessness  by  working  hard. 
She  had  thought  of  several  new  plans,  as  concerned 
both  mathematics  and  literature,  and  spoke  of  them 
with  much  interest.  To  my  brother  she  divulged  an 
idea  of  a  mathematical  work,  which  he  thought  would 
be  the  greatest  she  had  yet  written.  To  her  friend 
Ellen  Key,  with  whom  she  spent  most  of  these  last 
days,  she  spoke  of  several  new  novels  which  she  had 
worked  out  in  her  head.  One  she  had  already  com- 
menced, and  in  it  she  meant  to  give  a  character-sketch 
of  her  father.  She  had  also  written  two  thirds  of  an- 
other, which  was  to  be  a  pendant  to  "  Vera  Vorontzoff ." 
She  meant  to  call  it  "  A  Nihilist,"  and  it  was  to  de- 
scribe an  episode  in  TschernyscheVsky's  life.  The  last 
chapter,  which  she  had  not  yet  written,  she  described 
to  Ellen  Key,  who  noted  it  down  in  the  following 
words : 

T ,  from  obscurity,  has  suddenly  risen  to  celebrity  among 

the  young  generation  by  his  social  revolutionary  novel  entitled 
"What  to  Do."  At  a  fete  he  has  been  hailed  as  the  hope  and 
leader  of  the  rising  generation.  He  has  returned  to  his  garret, 
where  he  lives  with  his  beautiful  young  wife.  She  is  asleep 
when  he  arrives.  He  goes  to  the  window  and  looks  down  on 
sleeping  St.  Petersburg,  where  lights  still  glimmer.  He  talks, 
in  imagination,  to  the  terrible  silent  city.  There  it  lies — still 
the  home  of  violence,  poverty,  injustice,  and  oppression.  But 
he  will  conquer;  he  will  breathe  his  spirit  into  it.  What  he 

1  Appendix  K. 


A  BIOGRAPHY  291 

thinks,  they  all  shall  gradually  come  to  think ;  even  as  the  rising 
generation  does  now.  He  remembers  especially  a  deep-souled 
girl  whose  sympathy  has  gone  out  to  him.  He  begins  to  dream, 
but  rouses  himself  to  go  and  kiss  his  wife  and  tell  her  of  his 
triumphs,  when,  at  that  moment,  he  hears  a  sharp  knock  at  the 
door.  He  opens  it,  and  there  stand  the  gendarmes  who  have 
come  to  arrest  him. 

Eagerly  as  Sonya  had  often  invoked  death,  she  had 
at  this  moment  no  wish  to  die.  But  those  friends  who 
were  near  her  at  the  last  thought  her  more  resigned 
than  she  had  been  formerly.  She  no  longer  yearned 
for  that  complete  happiness  the  ideal  of  which  had 
ever  consumed  her  soul  with  its  burning  flame.  But 
she  now  longed,  with  ardent,  clinging  love,  for  the 
broken  gleams  of  the  happiness  which  had  of  late 
cast  a  light  upon  her  path. 

In  her  innermost  heart  she  was  afraid  of  the  great 
unknvum.  She  often  said  that  it  was  the  possibility  of 
punishment  in  the  other  world  which  alone  kept  her 
back  from  leaving  this  one.  She  had  no  definite  reli- 
gious belief,  but  she  believed  in  the  eternal  life  of  each 
individual  soul.  She  believed,  and  she  trembled. 

She  was  especially  afraid  of  the  awful  moment  at 
which  earthly  life  ends.  She  often  quoted  Hamlet's 
words : 

For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause. 

With  her  vivid  imagination  she  pictured  those  awful 
moments  which  perhaps  may  occur  when  the  body, 
physically  speaking,  is  dead,  but  the  nervous  system 
still  lives  and  suffers — suffers  a  nameless  martyrdom, 
known  by  none  but  by  those  who  have  taken  the  dread 
leap  into  the  great  darkness. 


292  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

Sonya  was  anxious  to  be  cremated,  because  she  had 
also  a  fear  of  being  buried  alive.-  She  pictured  to  her- 
self how  it  would  feel  to  awaken  in  her  coffin.  She 
described  it  in  such  words  as  to  make  all  who  heard 
her  shudder. 

Her  illness  was  so  short  and  violent  that  probably 
she  had  no  time  or  power  to  recall  at  the  last  moment 
all  these  sad  forebodings.  The  only  thing  she  said 
which  suggested  that  she  had  any  idea  of  her  ap- 
proaching end  she  uttered  on  Monday  morning,  the 
9th  of  February,  barely  twenty  hours  before  she  died. 
"  I  shall  never  get  over  this  illness,"  she  said.  And 
on  the  evening  of  the  same  day  she  remarked,  "  I  feel 
as  if  a  great  change  had  come  over  me." 

But  as  to  the  rest,  her  fear  was  chiefly  that  her  ill- 
ness might  be  a  long  one.  She  had  not  strength  to 
speak  much,  for  she  had  severe  pleurisy,  high  fever, 
and  asthma.  She  suffered  cruel  pain,  and  could  not 
bear  to  be  alone  for  a  moment. 

The  last  night  but  one  she  said  to  Ellen  Key,  who 
scarcely  ever  left  her :  "  If  you  hear  me  moan  in  my 
sleep,  wake  me,  and  help  me  to  change  my  position ; 
otherwise  I  fear  it  may  go  ill  with  me.  My  mother 
died  in  just  such  an  access  of  pain." 

She  had  hereditary  disease  of  the  heart,  and  had  in 
consequence  often  expressed  a  hope  that  she  might  die 
young.  This  disease,  however,  was  found  at  the  post- 
mortem to  have  been  of  no  importance,  though  it  may 
have  increased  the  asthma  caused  by  the  pleurisy. 

The  friends  who  were  near  her  during  her  short  ill- 
ness cannot  say  enough  about  her  goodness,  gentleness, 
and  patience ;  or  how  unselfish  she  was,  fearing  to  give 
trouble ;  and  how  touching  was  her  gratitude  for  every 
little  service  rendered. 

On  Tuesday  her  little  girl  was  to  go  to  a  children's 


A  BIOGRAPHY  293 

party,  and  Sonya  interested  herself  in  it  to  the  last, 
wishing  that  her  chjld  should  not  miss  this  pleasure. 
She  begged  her  friends  to  help  her  to  get  what  was  re- 
quired, and  when,  on  Monday  evening,  the  child  came 
to  her  mother  dressed  in  a  gipsy  costume,  Sonya  smiled 
kindly  on  her  little  daughter,  and  hoped  she  would 
enjoy  herself.  Only  a  few  hours  later  the  child  was 
roused  from  her  sleep  to  receive  her  mother's  dying 
look,  which  was  full  of  tenderness. 

On  the  Monday  evening  both  the  friends  who  had 
nursed  her  during  the  last  few  days  had  left  her,  and  a 
St.  Elizabeth's  sister  took  then-  place.  The  doctors  did 
not  apprehend  any  immediate  danger.  They  seemed 
rather  to  believe  the  illness  would  last  some  time. 
The  friends,  therefore,  considered  it  wiser  to  forego 
the  night-nursing  and  spare  their  strength. 

At  Sonya's  own  desire  they  were  to  rest  that  night, 
as  there  seemed  no  special  need  for  their  presence. 
Precisely  on  that  night  the  great  crisis  came. 

Sonya  lay  in  deep  sleep  when  her  friends  left  her. 
But  at  two  o'clock  she  awoke.  The  terrible  death- 
agony  had  begun.  She  showed  no  sign  of  conscious- 
ness. She  could  neither  speak  nor  move,  nor  even 
swallow.  This  lasted  for  two  hours.  Only  at  the  last 
moment  did  one  of  her  friends,  summoned  tardily  by 
the  nurse,  arrive. 

Alone — alone  with  a  hired  stranger,  a  nurse  who 
did  not  even  speak  her  language — she  had  to  struggle 
through  the  last  and  bitter  battle.  Who  knows  what 
consolation  a  beloved  voice,  the  touch  of  a  loving  hand, 
might  have  been  to  Sonya  during  those  two  terrible 
hours  ? 

I  wish  even  that  a  Russian  priest  could  have  read 
the  parting  prayers  to  her  during  that  time.  With  the 
veneration  in  which  she  still  held  the  Orthodox  religion, 

19* 


294  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

and,  indeed,  all  memories  of  her  childhood,  the  familiar 
words  would  have  been  sweet  and  calming  in  her  ears 
if  she  had  been  able  to  catch  them.  Could  her  hands, 
in  their  wandering,  have  clasped  the  cross,  it  might 
have  consoled  her,  as  it  has  so  often  consoled  other 
dying  mortals.  To  her  it  was  ever  a  much-loved  sym- 
bol— the  symbol  of  the  sufferings  of  mankind. 

But  there  was  nothing — not  a  word  of  consolation ; 
no  help ;  not  even  a  loving  hand  to  place  its  cool  pres- 
sure on  her  burning  brow.  Alone  in  a  strange  country, 
with  a  broken  heart  and  shattered  hopes,  trembling, 
perhaps,  at  what  she  was  about  to  meet !  Thus  she 
closed  her  earthly  lif e,  "  this  soul  of  fire,  this  soul  of 
thought." 

Out  of  the  hopeless  darkness  which  seemed  to  en- 
shroud this  death-bed,  little  by  little  some  gleams  of 
hope  have  arisen  before  me.  It  matters  not  whether 
life  be  long  or  short ;  all  depends  on  what  it  has  con- 
tained for  one's  self  and  for  others;  and,  from  this 
point  of  view,  Sonya's  life  had  been  longer  than  most. 
She  had  lived  intensely ;  she  had  drained  the  cup  both 
of  sorrow  and  of  joy.  She  had  quenched  the  thirst  of 
her  spirit  at  the  wells  of  wisdom.  She  had  risen  to 
the  heights  to  which  genius  and  imagination  alone  can 
carry  the  soul.  To  others  she  had  given  instinctively 
of  her  knowledge,  experience,  fantasy,  and  feeling. 
She  had  spoken  with  the  inspiring  voice  which  genius 
alone  possesses  when  it  does  not  isolate  itself  in  selfish 
retirement.  No  one  who  knew  her  could  remain  un- 
moved by  the  influence  ever  exercised  by  the  keen  in- 
tellect and  glowing  feeling  which  spread  sunshine  and 
growth  around.  Her  mind  was  fertile  because  her 
intellect  was  unselfish.  Her  highest  aspiration  was 
to  live  in  mental  union  with  another. 

If  there  was  much  that  was  fantastic  and  supersti- 


A  BIOGEAPHY  295 

tious  in  her  forebodings  and  dreams,  it  is  nevertheless 
true  that  there  was  much  in  her  of  the  "  seer."  When 
her  luminous  eyes,  full  of  genius,  were  fastened  on  the 
person  to  whom  she  spoke,  one  felt  that  they  penetrated 
the  very  soul.  How  often  did  she,  with  a  look,  pierce 
through  the  mask  beneath  which  less  sagacious  glances 
had  failed  to  discover  the  real  countenance!  How 
often  would  she  divine  the  secret  motives  that  were 
hidden  from  others,  and  even  unrevealed  to  their  very 
owner !  It  was  her  poet-soul  which  thus  became  in  her 
the  seer.  A  chance  word,  a  single  insignificant  episode 
which  she  came  across,  could  reveal  to  her  the  whole 
connection  between  cause  and  effect,  and  enable  her  to 
develop  them  into  the  story  of  a  whole  life.  It  was 
this  connection  for  which  her  soul  was  always  search- 
ing— the  connection  in  thoughtful  works,  and  between 
the  varied  phenomena  of  lif e.  She  even  sought  for  the 
unknown  connection  between  these  phenomena  and 
the  laws  of  thought.  She  sought  for  unity  in  the 
world  of  thought,  and  longed  for  it  also  in  the  world 
of  feeling. 

Just  as  her  intellect  craved  absolute  clearness  of 
thought  and  absolute  truth,  so  her  heart  craved  that 
perfect  love  and  union  which  the  limitations  of  life, 
and  more  especially  the  limitations  of  her  own  nature, 
rendered  impossible. 

It  was  a  never-ending  source  of  grief  to  her  that  in 
this  world  "we  can  only  see  in  part,  and  only  know 
in  part."  Thus  it  was  that  she  loved  to  dream  about 
another  and  a  higher  life,  of  which  the  Apostle  so 
beautifully  says,  "  Now  we  see  through  a  glass  darkly, 
but  then  face  to  face."  To  perceive  unity  in  the  mani- 
fold was  the  aim  of  her  scientific  and  poetic  mind. 
But  ah !  did  she  ever  attain  to  this  ?  The  possibility 
of  such  attainment,  dim  and  uncertain  as  it  is,  makes 


296  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

the  brain  reel ;  but  one  breathes  more  freely,  and  the 
heart  beats  with  a  fluttering  hope  that  takes  away  the 
sting  of  death. 

Sony  a  had  always  wished  to  die  young.  In  spite  of 
the  inexhaustible  freshness  of  mind  which  made  her 
ever  ready  to  receive  new  impressions,  to  drink  from 
fresh  sources  of  pleasure  and  find  enjoyment  in  trifles, 
there  was  still  in  her  mind  and  soul  a  longing  which 
life  could  never  satisfy. 

It  was  the  impossibility  of  harmonizing  and  fulfill- 
ing all  the  desires  of  such  a  nature  as  hers  that  wrecked 
her  life.  And  in  this  light  we  can  look  upon  her  death 
with  less  sadness. 

Starting  from  her  own  belief  in  a  deep  relationship 
between  the  different  phenomena  of  life,  one  cannot 
fail  to  understand  that  death  was,  as  it  were,  the  natural 
outcome  of  it  all.  It  was  not  merely  that  destructive 
and  fatal  microbes  had  settled  on  her  lungs ;  and  not 
even  because  life  could  never  give  her  the  joys  for  which 
she  craved.  But  also  the  necessary  organic  relation- 
ship between  her  inner  and  outer  being  was  wanting ; 
the  link  between  the  worlds  of  thought  and  feeling,  be- 
tween her  temperament  and  disposition,  was  lacking. 
She  saw,  as  it  were,  "  as  when  that  which  is  perfect  is 
come,"  but  she  acted  only  "  in  part." 

If  there  be  a  world  in  which  these  contrasts  are  har- 
monized, truly  she  must  be  happy  now.  If  not — then 
she  has  gained  the  desired  harmony  in  another  way, 
because  in  complete  rest  there  is  also  harmony. 

Few  deaths  have  awakened  such  great  and  such 
general  regret  as  did  that  of  Sonya.  From  nearly  all 
quarters  of  the  civilized  world  telegrams  of  condolence 
reached  the  Stockholm  University.  From  the  highly 
conservative  University  of  St.  Petersburg,  of  which  she 
had  been  made  a  corresponding  member  during  the 


A  BIOGKAPHY  297 

last  year  of  her  life,  down  to  the  Sunday-school1  in 
Tiflis  and  the  kindergarten  in  Kharkoff,  all  joined  in 
showing  honor  to  her  memory. 

The  women  of  Russia  decided  to  raise  a  monument 
on  her  grave  in  Stockholm.  At  her  burial,  carriage- 
loads  of  flowers  covered  the  dark,  newly  turned  earth 
among  the  snow-drifts  in  the  Stockholm  cemetery. 
All  the  papers 2  and  reviews  contained  honorable  men- 
tion of  the  unique  woman  who  had  brought  honor  on 
her  sex.3 

But  one  picture  stands  out  by  itself  from  among 
all  these  signs  of  homage,  these  tributes  of  esteem. 
Sonya  will  be  for  posterity  what  she  least  wished  to 
be — a  marvel  of  mental  development  and  beautiful 
womanhood ;  or,  if  you  will,  a  kind  of  giantess  of  such 
extraordinary  proportions  that  you  regard  her  with 
wonder  and  admiration. 

I  have,  perhaps,  in  describing  her  life,  in  unveiling 
its  mistakes  and  weaknesses,  its  sorrows  and  humilia- 
tions, as  well  as  its  greatness  and  its  triumph,  reduced 
too  much  its  true  dimensions.  What  I  had  in  mind 
was  to  depict  S6nya  as  I  knew  her,  and  as  she  wished 
to  be  known  and  understood.  I  have,  above  all, 
sought  to  emphasize  the  human  traits  in  the  picture, 
and  in  this  way  place  its  subject  nearer  to  the  level  of 
other  women ;  to  make  her  one  of  them — not  an  excep- 
tion to,  but  a  proof  of,  the  rule  that  the  life  of  the  heart 
is  the  most  important,  not  only  for  women,  but  for  the 
whole  of  the  human  race.  At  this  central  focus  of  all 
humanity  the  most  and  the  least  gifted  may  ever  meet. 

1  Appendix  L.          2  Appendix  M.          3  Appendix  N. 


NOTE 

EXTRACTS  PROM  ELLEN  KEY'S  BIOGRAPHY  OF  THE 
DUCHESS  OF  CAJANELLO 

TRANSLATED  BY  ISABEL  P.   HAPGOOD 

WHEREVER  Anna  Carlotta  Leffler  went,  her  personal  ap- 
pearance attracted  general  attention,  but  she  was  never 
such  a  brilliant  conversationalist  in  society  as,  for  example, 
Sophia  Kovalevsky.  When  the  two  friends  passed  the 
evening  in  any  company,  a  circle  of  listeners  almost  always 
formed  around  Sophia,  while  Anna  Carlotta,  on  the  con- 
trary, liked  to  play  the  part  of  a  listener  herself  in  the 
circle  which  gathered  round  her.  Her  conversation  did  not 
shine  by  any  particular  originality  of  thought,  or  witty 
sallies,  but  it  was  distinguished  by  its  wealth  of  material. 
When  she  related  anything,  analyzed  any  psychological 
problem,  expounded  the  contents  of  a  book,  one  always  got 
the  actual  delineation  of  the  person  or  situation  in  question, 
a  delineation  set  forth  in  a  clear  and  definite  manner;  she 
hewed  out  the  block  of  marble,  so  to  speak,  and  presented 
it  to  her  hearers  in  its  natural  state.  But  when  the  same 
block  of  marble  fell  into  Sophia's  hands,  she,  the  Michael 
Angelo  of  conversation,  flung  herself  upon  it  with  stormy 
energy,  and  very  soon,  where  there  had  been  only  material 
before,  the  contour  of  a  figure  was  revealed.  Everything 
had  taken  place  thus  always,  as  Anna  Carlotta  Leffler  nar- 
rated it;  everything  might  take  place  thus,  as  Sophia 
narrated  it,  and  then  everything  would  have  been  much 
more  interesting  than  it  was  in  reality.  When  she  lacked 
material,  Sophia  worked  over  what  she  had  at  hand.  Thus, 

299 


300  SONYA  KOVALtfVSKY 

for  example,  she  one  day  read  somewhere  that  if  a  man 
possessed,  in  proportion  to  his  size,  the  same  capacity  for 
jumping  which  is  possessed  by  some  insects,  he  would  be 
able,  with  one  leap,  to  reach  the  moon.  Thereupon  she  be- 
gan, with  all  the  force  of  her  eloquence,  to  demonstrate,  on 
the  basis  of  astronomical,  physical,  and  mechanical  facts, 
that  the  problem  of  future  civilization  and  culture,  to  which 
she,  among  others,  wished  to  devote  her  life,  consisted  in 
developing  in  the  human  race  the  capacity  to  jump,  and  thus 
to  render  them  capable  of  leaping  to  another  planet,  when 
it  should  prove  impossible  to  live  any  longer  on  the  earth ; 
by  the  aid  of  such  a  leap,  people  would  save  themselves 
and  the  memory  of  culture,  which  has  attained  to  such  a 
high  degree  of  development  on  our  earth.  And  she  devel- 
oped this  jest  with  such  a  serious  mien,  that  the  comic  im- 
pression was  irresistible.  It  not  infrequently  happened, 
during  conversation,  that  Anna  Carlotta  expressed  some 
thought  which  Sophia  afterward  took  up.  Thus,  the  for- 
mer once  made  the  following  quotation  from  a  Danish 
author  :  "  Genius  is  needed  in  order  to  love,"  an  expression 
which  several  young  poets  who  were  present  would  not 
accept  in  its  real  sense,  but  interpreted  to  signify  that 
"  only  geniuses  can  love."  Sophia  strove,  for  a  long  time, 
to  explain  the  real  meaning,  but  in  vain.  But  when  these 
men  took  their  departure,  she  exclaimed :  ''  Really,  it  is 
incredible  how  stupid  even  the  most  gifted  people  can  be, 
when  love  is  in  question  !  Here  are  these  nice  young  men 
discussing  and  writing  books  on  this  subject,  and  yet  they 
do  not  understand  that  some  people  possess  a  talent  for 
love,  just  as  others  possess  talent  for  music  or  mechanics, 
and  that  for  these  geniuses  of  love,  love  is  converted  into  a 
vital  matter,  while  for  all  the  rest  of  mankind  it  constitutes 
only  one  of  the  episodes  of  life.  And  it  is  generally  the 
case  —  according  to  Darwin's  theory  it  is  perfectly  natu- 
ral —  that  the  genius  of  love  should  fall  in  love  with  the 
idiot  of  love;  precisely  this  constitutes  one  of  the  most 
puzzling  problems  of  life,  and  our  young  men  have  not 
even  observed  that.  But  if  there  exists  a  realm  in  which 


NOTE  301 

the  most  stupid  woman  is  wiser  than  the  cleverest  man,  that 
realm  is  love.  When  I  was  six  years  old,  and  fell  in  love, — 
my  first  love, —  with  a  student  who  visited  at  our  house,  and 
loved  him  with  a  strong,  silent  love  which  I  confided  to  no 
one  except  to  a  stone  lion  which  adorned  my  grandfather's 
garden,  I  understood  more  about  the  meaning  of  this  matter 
than  these  young  men  do." 

A.  C.  Leffler  listened  in  smiling  silence  to  the  flood  of 
eloquence,  which  rang  out  for  a  good  while  longer,  until, 
at  last,  it  descended  with  full  force  upon  her,  upon  "  sly 
Anna  Carlotta,"  who  had  thrown  down  the  glove,  and  then 
beaten  a  retreat,  leaving  Sophia  to  extricate  herself  from 
the  scrape.  The  fact  was,  that  Anna  Carlotta,  like  many 
others,  disliked  to  interrupt  Sophia  when  the  latter  got 
excited  j  there  was  so  much  depth  of  thought,  brilliant  wit, 
humor,  lyrism,  imagery,  and  vividness  in  her  speech,  that 
every  one  preferred  to  listen  to  her.  A.  C.  Leffler,  with  the 
good  nature  which  constituted  one  of  her  most  attractive 
qualities,  often  took  Sophia's  jests  in  earnest,  which  not 
infrequently  provoked  fresh  sallies  of  wit  and  laughter. 

Sophia  took  great  delight  in  profiting  by  the  psycho- 
logical perspicacity  which  was  peculiar  to  her,  to  delineate 
the  character  of  a  given  person  —  to  imagine  for  herself 
his  distant  future  on  the  foundation  of  some  gesture  of  his, 
some  intonation  of  his  voice,  and  so  forth .  None  of  Sophia's 
brilliant  qualities  aroused  such  a  degree  of  wonder  and 
admiration  in  A.  C.  Leffler  as  this.  In  order  to  explain 
what  we  mean  by  this  quality  of  Sophia,  we  will  cite  the 
following  fact.  One  day  Sophia  Kovalevsky  chanced  to  be 
traveling  in  the  same  carriage  with  a  woman  who  is  now 
doing  much  work  in  the  interest  of  her  native  land.  Mme. 
Kovalevsky  entered  into  conversation  with  her,  and  began 
to  inquire  her  plans.  When  the  woman  stated  them,  Sophia 
said :  "  You  will  certainly  be  successful.  There  comes  a 
decisive  moment  in  the  life  of  every  person,  when  his  whole 
future  fate  depends  upon  whether  he  chooses  the  path  on 
which  he  should  go,  or  not.  He  who  lets  that  moment 
slip  ruins  his  whole  future  life.  You  belong  to  the  class  of 


302  SONYA  KOVAL£VSKY 

people  who  understand  how  to  choose  the  right  road." 
"  But  how  can  you  know  all  this  about  me  ?  "  asked  the  as- 
tonished woman.  "  I  saw  the  way  in  which  you  took  leave 
of  your  mother  at  the  station,"  replied  Sophia.  "  You 
laughed  as  you  bade  her  farewell,  and  then,  when  the  train 
started,  you  began  to  cry.  I  immediately  perceived  that 
you  have  a  heart  and  courage ;  such  people  always  under- 
stand how  to  choose  the  right  road  at  the  proper  moment." 
Sophia  Kovalevsky  loved  argument  for  the  sake  of  argu- 
ment ;  she  often  retorted  on  herself,  and  then  triumphantly 
refuted  her  own  arguments.  A.  C.  Leffler  was  much  more 
interested  in  the  matter  of  the  conversation  than  in  argu- 
ment, and  when  she  was  called  upon  to  defend  any  idea, 
she  did  it  with  a  remarkable  calmness,  which  impressed  her 
friend  greatly,  because  she  admired  nothing  so  much  as 
she  did  calmness.  She  often  said  that  there  were  people 
who,  by  their  mere  presence  in  the  room  where  she  was, 
shed  abroad  peace,  brought  harmony  into  her  inner  world, 
producing  on  her  "  the  freshness  and  repose  of  marble,  or 
the  softness  of  velvet."  In  Anna  Carlotta  she  found  not 
only  calmness  of  temperament,  biit  also  a  breadth  of  view 
and  thought  which  acted  upon  her  like  a  charm.  The 
love  for  psychological  problems  and  clearness  of  thought 
these  women  had  in  common,  though  their  gifts  presented 
such  a  wide  difference  in  many  other  respects.  Sophia  was 
most  fond  of  music  and  lyrics,  and  often  thought  in  images ; 
she  possessed  that  peculiar  comprehension  of  nature  which 
seeks  in  it,  first  of  all,  that  which  most  nearly  corresponds 
to  a  given  mind  or  personifies  it;  at  the  same  time  she  was 
distinguished  by  a  wonderful  capacity  for  conveying  these 
impressions  in  a  remarkably  vivid,  artistic,  and  poetical 
form.  Anna  Carlotta,  on  the  contrary,  loved  nature  most 
of  all ;  and,  next  to  it,  the  arts  which  reproduced  it —  paint- 
ing and  sculpture.  She  never  expressed  her  thoughts  in 
images,  but  always  in  separate  sentences ;  but  she  greatly 
admired  Sophia's  wealth  of  imagination  and  imagery,  and  her 
lyrical  qualities,  just  as  the  latter  admired  Anna  Carlotta's 
power  of  setting  forth  her  thoughts  in  a  clear,  simple  form. 


NOTE  303 

The  difference  in  character  between  the  two  Mends  was 
also  expressed,  among  other  things,  in  such  trifles  as  those 
by  the  aid  of  which  Sophia  was  sometimes  fond  of  building 
up  a  delineation  of  certain  persons,  attributing  to  these 
trifles  great  significance.  When  Sophia  was  well,  for  in- 
stance, she  put  out  her  hand  with  a  sharp,  brisk  movement, 
and  her  thin,  nervous  fingers  instantly  slipped  out  of  the 
hand  of  the  person  who  met  her,  like  the  wings  of  a  cap- 
tured bird.  This  manner  of  shaking  hands  indicated  a 
nervous,  impressionable  nature ;  bespoke  a  person  who 
always  acted  under  the  influence  of  impulse.  On  the  con- 
trary, Anna  Carlotta's  manner  of  moving  her  beautiful 
hands  expressed  calm  grace.  She  extended  her  elegant, 
white  hand,  with  its  slender  fingers,  with  a  sort  of  reserve, 
but  left  it  for  a  while  in  the  hand  of  her  interlocutor,  calmly 
awaiting  a  responsive  pressure.  As  in  trifles,  so  in  more 
serious  things,  she  always  produced  the  impression  of  a 
solid,  well-poised,  reserved  personality.  She  seemed  un- 
sympathetic to  some  men,  thanks  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
as  daring  as  she  was  independent ;  but  one  had  only  to  get 
better  acquainted  with  her,  and  this  unpleasant  feeling 
gave  way  to  the  warmest  sympathy,  so  that  more  than  one 
man  regretted  that  he  had  met  her  too  late.  Women  ad- 
mired in  her  the  authoress  who  worked  seriously ;  who  was 
distinguished  for  such  masculine  impartiality,  and  such 
wonderful  clearness  of  thought. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE* 

BY  LILY  WOLFFSOHN 

"  THE  life  of  a  woman  by  a  woman"  might  be  the  sub- 
title of  the  book  now  presented  for  the  first  time  to  the 
British  public ;  and  the  adjectives,  "  eminent  and  remark- 
able," might  with  justice  be  added  to  both  nouns. 

For  Anna  Carlotta  Leffler,  the  author  of  "  Sonya  Kova- 
leVsky,"  was  no  less  gifted  than  the  subject  of  the  biog- 
raphy, and  it  is  for  this  reason  that,  by  way  of  introduction, 
we  here  give  a  sketch  of  her  life  founded  on  the  following 
works :  an  inedited  autobiography,  kindly  lent  by  the  Duke 
of  Cajanello,  her  second  husband ;  a  biography  in  the  Swe- 
dish language,  by  Ellen  Key,  published  by  E.  Bonnier, 
Stockholm ;  an  article  in  the  "  Vie  Contemporaine,"  entitled 
<;  Femmes  du  Nord,"  by  Count  Prozor ;  a  biography,  by 
Gegjerstam,  in  "  Ord  6  Bild";  and  an  introduction  to  the 
novels  of  Anna  Carlotta  Leffler,  by  the  Duchess  of  Andrea 
(Italian  edition,  Loescher  and  Co.). 

Anna  Carlotta  was  the  only  daughter  of  J.  A.  Leffler,  a 
Swedish  rector,  and  was  born  on  October  1, 1849.  From 
her  mother,  the  daughter  of  a  minister  named  Mittag,  she 

1  Since  this  biographical  introduction  was  written,  we  have 
become  acquainted  with  a  biography  of  Anna  Carlotta  Leffler, 
written  by  Madame  Laura  Marholm  in  her  "Buch  der  Frauen," 
which  contains  many  erroneous  facts  and  data,  and  judgments 
which  prove  that  the  writer  has  never  really  known  Anna  Car- 
lotta Leffler,  but  has  gathered  her  information  from  impure 
sources. 

304 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTE  305 

inherited  the  literary  tendencies  which  showed  themselves 
so  early,  that,  when  only  six  years  old,  she  dictated  a  little 
tale  to  her  brother  Fritz,  which  the  lad  wrote  down. 

The  little  girl  grew  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  tender  affec- 
tion, equally  beloved  by  her  parents  and  by  her  three 
brothers  —  Goesta  Mittag-Leffler,  who  afterward  became 
an  eminent  mathematical  professor  in  his  own  country, 
and  also  obtained  a  doctor's  degree  at  Oxford;  Arthur, 
who  became  an  architect,  and  Fritz. 

The  latter  was  nearest  to  her  in  age,  and  was  her  constant 
playfellow,  in  whose  company  she  enjoyed  summer  trips 
to  Folglelos  on  the  Vettern  Lake,  which  were  repeated 
yearly  up  to  1858,  and  looked  forward  to  by  the  children, 
during  the  long  winters  spent  in  Stockholm,  with  longing 
and  delight. 

During  these  sojourns  in  the  beautiful  scenery  of  Vettern 
Lake,  Anna  Carlotta  imbibed  the  love  of  Sweden,  its  lakes 
and  mountains,  which  remained  true  and  strong  even  when 
she  was  transplanted  to  the  fairer  regions  of  the  South. 

Her  intimate  companionship  with  her  brothers,  and  par- 
ticipation in  their  studies,  were  of  great  influence  on  Anna 
Carlotta's  character.  She  became  a  frank,  intrepid  girl, 
free  from  all  feminine  caprice,  capable  of  simple,  loyal 
friendship,  looking  at  life  with  a  wider  charity. 

As  a  young  girl,  she  was  of  a  placid  and  amiable  dispo- 
sition, and  became  a  favorite  with  all  the  pupils  of  the 
Wallenska  school,  which  she  attended  for  some  years.  Her 
masters  praised  her  for  several  compositions  in  Swedish, 
but  offended  her  by  hinting  that  her  brothers  must  have 
helped  her.  Even  during  her  school  years  she  indulged  in 
writing  fiction,  and  the  strong  religious  impression  she  re- 
ceived at  her  confirmation  found  expression  in  a  never- 
published  romance,  which  she  was  busy  writing  from  her 
fifteenth  to  her  seventeenth  year. 

Very  wisely  her  brothers  would  not  allow  her  to  publish 

her  first  attempts;  they  rather  encouraged  her  to  study 

earnestly  the  language,  history,  and  literature  of  her  native 

land,  and  thus  saved  her  from  the  peril  of  dilettantism. 

20 


306  SONi^A  KOVALEVSKY 

But  both  they  and  her  parents  never  denied  her  that  ad- 
miring sympathy  which  is  so  welcome  to  all  young  writers. 

In  autumn,  1869,  under  the  pseudonym  of  "  Carlot,"  she 
published  a  collection  of  tales  entitled  "  By  Chance,"  which 
were  well  received  by  the  public.  In  1872  she  married, 
under  peculiar  circumstances,  Mr.  G.  Edgren,  with  whom 
she  lived  like  an  affectionate  and  tenderly-loved  sister. 
She  reserved  full  liberty  to  dedicate  herself  to  a  literary 
life,  but  never  neglected  the  duties  of  the  mistress  of  a 
household. 

The  excellent  financial  conditions  in  which  she  lived,  and 
the  high  position  she  held,  not  only  enabled  her  to  pursue 
the  vocation  to  which  she  felt  herself  called,  but  also  gave 
her  abundant  opportunity  of  frequenting  society,  without, 
however,  wasting  her  strength  on  mere  frivolities. 

She  grew  in  experience,  her  imagination  became  more 
fecund,  and  her  literary  development  made  great  progress. 
Yet  some  deeper  aspirations  of  her  soul  remained  unsatis- 
fied, and  the  traces  of  this  want  may  be  found  in  the  thirst 
for  independence,  for  a  personal  life  freer  from  conven- 
tionality, depicted  in  her  drama,  "  The  Actress,"  and  in 
"  Elfvan,"  now  that  their  true  authorship  is  known.  But 
at  the  time  of  their  appearance  this  of  course  was  unno- 
ticed, except  by  her  intimate  friends. 

"  The  Actress "  was  represented  on  the  stage  in  1873 ; 
"Henpecked"  and  "The  Curate"  in  1876;  "Elfvan "in 
1880. 

"  The  Actress,"  though  it  was  played  at  the  Stockholm 
during  a  whole  winter,  was  never  suspected  to  be  the  work 
of  a  woman,  and  no  one  would  have  believed  it  possible 
that  a  girl  only  twenty-three  years  of  age,  who  had  never 
been  in  a  theater  above  two  or  three  times  in  her  lif e,  could 
have  produced  such  a  drama.  Her  parents,  during  their 
daughter's  early  youth,  considered  theater-going  a  luxury, 
and  her  own  religious  convictions  forbade  her  to  indulge 
in  such  a  pleasure  often. 

In  this  first  work  Anna  Carlotta  expressed  the  idea  which 
dominated  her  life ;  an  idea  set  forth  by  her  long  before 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  307 

Ibsen  wrote  "  The  Doll's  House."  It  was  that  love,  in  a 
woman,  must  be  subordinated  to  duty,  not  in  the  limited 
sense  of  conjugal  duty,  but  in  the  wide  sense  of  duty  to 
oneself  and  to  mankind. 

Contemporaneously  with  her  dramatic  works,  the  young 
author  wrote  short  stories,  descriptions  of  travel,  essays, 
etc.,  principally  for  the  "  New  Illustrated  Journal,"  of 
Stockholm. 

Her  works  had  already  excited  attention  when,  in  1882, 
she  first  published  a  collection  of  tales  under  her  own  name. 
The  book  was  entitled  "  From  Life"  (a  title  that  was  added 
to  all  her  later  works),  and  made  an  immense  impression. 

At  one  stroke  Anna  Carlotta  Leffler  acquired  an  eminent 
place  in  northern  literature  —  due,  no  doubt,  partly  to  the 
fact  that  she  had  never  habituated  the  public  to  associate 
her  name  with  the  miniature  literary  attempts  of  a  beginner. 

By  translation  into  Danish,  Russian,  German,  and  other 
languages,  her  name  became  famous  abroad  as  one  of  the 
best  Swedish  writers  of  the  time.  Many  of  her  dramas 
were  represented  on  different  Northern  stages,  and  even  in 
Germany. 

Not  long  ago  her  comedy,  "A  Charity  Fair,"  was  trans- 
lated into  Italian.  Benedetto  Croce,  a  distinguished  Nea- 
politan critic,  wrote  an  introduction  to  this  publication. 
It  is  owing  to  the  purely  Swedish  character  of  her  first 
works  that  the  social  life  of  Sweden  began  to  excite  inter- 
est in  Europe.1 

In  1883,  the  second  volume  of  "  From  Life  "  was  pub- 
lished. It  was  written  in  a  freer  manner,  with  fine  sar- 
casm, and  greater  knowledge,  but  the  public  cried  out 
against  the  tendency  of  some  of  the  stories.  "  At  Strife 
with  Society"  and  "Aurora  Bunge,"  the  two  most  full  of 
genius,  were  called  "  scandalous." 

But  the  adverse  critics  laid  down  their  arms  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  novel  "  Gustav,  the  Pastor,"  which  was  rich 
in  true  Swedish  humor. 

1  The  writer  seems  to  have  forgotten  Frederika  Bremer  and 
Emilie  Flygare-Carl<Sn.— I.  F.  H. 


308  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

Anna  Carlotta  possessed  a  very  sensitive  literary  con- 
science, and  if  she  sometimes  disobeyed  its  behests,  it  was 
only  out  of  consideration  for  her  family,  who  were  wounded 
by  the  criticism  to  which  she  was  exposed.  But  when  she 
felt  that  the  criticism  was  just,  she  was  always  modestly 
willing  to  revise  her  work. 

Gradually  the  young  author  grew  more  courageous  in 
representing  real  lif e,  and  began  to  touch  on  the  problems 
of  modern  life. 

But  she  never  sympathized  with  "party,"  nor  became 
the  center  of  a  fanatic  literary  circle  such  as  she  has  been 
falsely  represented  to  have  been.  As  her  literary  works 
became  more  important,  and  her  fame  increased,  criticism 
grew  more  virulent,  and  even  among  her  greatest  admirers 
discussion  arose  as  to  her  real  meaning.  Some  said  that 
her  entire  personality  was  to  be  found  in  her  writings, 
while  the  fact  is  that  those  produced  later,  and  the  change 
in  her  own  being,  have  shown  the  error  of  this  opinion. 
Others,  and  they  were  the  most  numerous,  saw  in  all  her 
novels  and  romances  nothing  but  a  struggle  for  the  emanci- 
pation of  woman,  thus  trying  to  limit  within  the  narrow 
sphere  of  a  single  aim  the  large  and  liberal  ideas  of  a 
writer  who,  though  displaying  quite  a  special  individual- 
ity, was  thoroughly  objective. 

The  most  common  opinion  was  indeed  that  Anna  Car- 
lotta Leffler  fought  for  the  emancipation  of  woman  with 
more  courage  and  energy  than  any  other  writer,  and  this 
opinion  was  confirmed  by  the  fact  that  around  her  gathered 
all  the  pioneers  of  the  new  school,  all  the  most  illustrious 
champions  of  the  woman  question,  and  precisely  at  that 
epoch  the  emancipation  of  woman  was  passionately  dis- 
cussed in  Sweden.  Anna  Carlotta's  house  was  the  rendez- 
vous for  all  the  adherents  of  the  new  literature,  who  ren- 
dered her  homage,  not  only  and  not  so  much  as  a  writer, 
but  principally  as  a  woman  who  had  raised  her  voice,  and 
obtained  a  hearing,  among  the  most  famous  men  in  Swe- 
den. She  was  certainly  impelled  toward  the  promulgators 
of  the  rights  of  woman  by  her  lively  sympathy  with  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  309 

cause  in  its  moral  and  social  aspects,  but  she  kept  herself 
free  from  any  party  spirit,  and  her  literary  sphere  belonged 
to  a  larger  and  more  serene  field  of  thought. 

But  there  was  another  thing  that  seemed  to  prove  those 
to  be  right  who,  at  all  costs,  sought  to  imprison  Anna  Car- 
lotta  within  the  strict  limits  of  the  woman  question,  and 
this  was  her  manner  of  regarding  and  understanding  love 
in  the  abstract,  a  manner  to  which  she  was  led  by  all  the 
woman  movement. 

Love,  at  this  time,  seemed  to  her  only  an  episode  of  life, 
not  lif e's  essence,  or,  so  to  speak,  the  life  of  life.  Her  works 
seemed  to  be  wanting  in  something  indefinable,  and  this 
something  was  the  intimate  and  complete  conception  of  the 
sentiment  only  obtained  by  the  absolute  abandonment  of 
the  soul  to  love.  In  the  story  "  Doubt,"  and  another  one, 
"  At  Strife  with  Society,"  very  much  is  said,  and  well  said, 
about  love ;  but  love  itself  is  only  seen  by  glimpses,  as  if  the 
author  deliberately  wanted  to  deny  to  her  own  soul  the 
knowledge  of  an  invading  power  that  she  almost  feared. 
And,  in  fact,  it  was  only  later  in  lif e  that  she  possessed  the 
entire  and  perfect  knowledge  of  the  power  of  love. 

The  famous  representatives  of  Northern  literature,  who 
met  at  Anna  Carlotta's  house  to  discuss  all  things  under 
the  sun,  were  put  at  their  ease  by  the  sympathizing  amia- 
bility of  their  hostess,  who  gave  the  impress  of  her  person- 
ality to  the  conversation,  yet  was  as  ready  to  listen  as  to 
speak.  She  often  displayed,  however,  a  coldness  and  pride  of 
manner  due  to  a  shyness  which  she  never  entirely  overcame, 
but  these  soon  vanished  on  more  intimate  acquaintance. 

In  1884  the  young  writer  began  to  travel,  taking  with  her 
a  dear  friend,  Julia  Kjellberg,  now  Madame  von  Vollmar. 
She  obtained  many  introductions  to  different  circles  in 
foreign  lands  partly  through  Madame  Sonya  KovaleVsky, 
who  had  come  to  Stockholm  in  1883,  and  with  whom  she 
had  become  most  intimate. 

Thus  Anna  Carlotta  became  acquainted,  especially  in 
England,  with  some  of  the  most  noted  personages,  and  ac- 
quired new  ideas. 


310  SONYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

The  new  impulse  given  to  her  literary  talent  is  shown 
in  her  description  of  travel  in  "From  Modern  London"; 
in  the  above-mentioned  drama,  "A  Charity  Fair,"  and 
in  "  True  Women,"  published  in  English  by  S.  French, 
London. 

This  drama,  which  seemed  to  have  been  written  in  favor 
of  the  emancipation  of  married  women,  was  really  the  out- 
come of  the  author's  pity  for  the  domestic  troubles  of  one 
very  dear  to  her.  After  its  publication  many  regarded  her 
as  a  despiser  of  men,  an  amazon  thirsting  for  battle  ;  but 
they  would  have  become  aware  of  their  mistake  had  they 
seen  the  tears  in  the  author's  eyes  when  she  received  the 
thanks  of  her  friend  for  her  expressions  of  noble  indigna- 
tion, a  feeling  which  was  a  force  in  her  writings,  and  was 
not  the  cold  indignation  proper  to  persons  who  only  regard 
fictitious  life  from  within  their  four  walls,  but  the  warm  re- 
sentment against  the  wrongs  of  actual  sufferers. 

In  1886  our  author  published  a  romance  entitled  "A 
Summer  Story,"  which  has  quite  lately  been  translated  and 
published  in  German,  and  which,  more  than  any  other 
of  her  productions,  contains  the  personal  feelings  of  the 
writer. 

In  this  tale  love  already  begins  to  appear  as  an  actual 
force  in  human  existence,  as  a  thing  that  has  tyrannous 
rights  able  to  balance  all  other  intellectual  exigencies. 
Here  still  these  intellectual  exigencies  triumph,  and  love  is 
enslaved,  but  in  all  the  life  of  Ulla,  the  heroine  of  the 
romance,  there  is  a  lament  and  homesickness  for  the  very 
love  which  she  would  conquer  and  trample  upon,  but  which 
destroys  the  balance  of  her  existence,  and  condemns  her  to 
a  continual  and  sterile  struggle  between  her  old  self  and 
the  new  spirit  born  within  her,  because  the  latter  is  not  so 
fully  incorporated  with  love  as  to  give  it  the  victory  over 
the  former  state  of  feeling.  This  story  shows  that  a  woman 
who  sacrifices  love  to  personal  dignity — a,  sacrifice  of  which 
the  writer  nevertheless  approves  —  can  never  be  happy. 

In  the  biography  of  Sonya  Kovalevsky,  now  before  the 
reader,  Anna  Carlotta  Leffler  relates  the  circumstances  of 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTE  311 

her  intimacy  with  that  gifted  woman,  and  therefore  we 
need  not  touch  on  the  subject  here. 

At  the  beginning  of  1888  she  went  to  Africa  with  her 
brother,  Professor  Mittag-Leffler,  and  his  wife,  Signe,  to 
attend  the  Mathematical  Congress  in  Algiers.  During  this 
journey,  while  returning  through  Italy,  she  met,  for  the 
first  time,  with  a  mathematician,  professor  at  the  Naples 
University,  who  had  long  been  in  correspondence  with  her 
brother. 

This  was  Signor  Pasquale  del  Pezzo,  the  Duke  of  Caja- 
nello.  Their  acquaintance  ripened  into  a  true  and  tender 
love,  which,  after  the  divorce  of  Anna  Carlotta,  and  the 
overcoming  of  many  difficulties  made  by  the  Duke's  family, 
who  objected  to  his  future  wife  as  a  Protestant,  was  finally 
crowned  by  a  happy  marriage,  which  was  celebrated  in 
Rome,  in  May,  1890. 

Previously  to  this,  in  1889,  Anna  Carlotta  published  a 
new  collection  of  tales  also  under  the  common  title  of 
"  From  Life."  The  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Cajanello,  after 
their  marriage,  spent  a  large  portion  of  the  year  at  Djurs- 
holm,  near  Stockholm. 

The  now  happy  woman  shortly  published  a  romance, 
"  Womanliness  and  Erotics,"  inspired  by  the  new  senti- 
ments and  sensations  which  crowded  upon  her,  and  also  a 
comedy  called  "  This  Love  ! " 

This  romance  was  much  talked  of,  and  was  criticized  with 
more  than  usual  acrimony.  The  author  herself  considered 
it  the  most  complete  and  vivid  manifestation  of  her  own 
personality.  The  first  part  had  been  written  seven  years 
previously,  and,  at  one  point  of  the  heroine's  destiny,  there 
arose  a  question  to  which  the  writer  at  that  time  knew  no 
answer.  She  felt  that  there  was  missing  the  real  explana- 
tion of  all  the  psychological  evolutions  in  her  heroine  —  that 
Alie  who  was  awaiting  the  full  development  of  her  per- 
sonality from  the  love  that  must  finally  awaken  and  subju- 
gate her.  But  how,  and  under  what  circumstances,  would 
Alie  love?  —  she  "who  was  so  much  convinced  that  the 
reality  could  never  afford  her  anything  but  delusions  that 


312  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

she  shrank  back  from  all  opportunities  of  executing  what 
she  had  dreamed  of." 

The  author  herself  did  not  yet  know;  but  then  came 
that  crisis  in  her  own  life  which  rejuvenized  and  trans- 
formed her,  giving  her  the  power  to  reply  to  the  question 
that  had  arisen  in  the  life  of  her  heroine.  Alie  loves,  be- 
cause Anna  Carlotta  at  last  understood  what  love  was  — 
the  love  that  rids  life  of  all  disharmony  and  all  hesitation, 
and,  from  the  perfect  balance  and  fusion  of  the  feelings, 
evolves  the  still  intact  but  renovated  and  completed  indi- 
vidual. "  Womanliness  and  Erotics"  indeed  reveals  the 
bliss  derived  by  its  author  from  an  affection  for  the  first 
time  felt  and  requited. 

After  this,  the  Duchess  wrote  a  drama  in  three  acts,  en- 
titled "  Domestic  Happiness";  some  character  sketches ;  and 
a  fantastic  dramatic  poem,  "  The  Search  after  Truth," 
which,  under  the  influence  of  the  rich  Southern  imagination 
of  her  husband,  displays  a  force  of  artistic  representation 
not  found  in  her  early  productions. 

When  S6nya  Kovalevsky  died  in  1891,  Anna  Carlotta  for- 
sook all  other  work  in  order  to  write  the  biography  of  her 
friend.  It  was  her  own  last  work,  and  was  generally  con- 
sidered to  be  one  of  the  most  exact  and  perfect  psychologi- 
cal studies  to  be  found  in  contemporary  literature,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  a  delightful  and  genial  work  of  art. 

The  newly  married  Duchess  of  Cajanello  felt  quite  at 
home  in  Italy,  and  was  never  afflicted  by  home-sickness. 
She  was  already  perfectly  acquainted  with  the  Italian  lan- 
guage, and  surrounded  herself  with  a  select  circle  of  scien- 
tific and  literary  men,  old  and  new  friends  of  her  husband. 

One  of  those  who  frequented  the  Duke's  house  in  Naples 
describes  it  as  full  of  sunshine  and  happiness.  The  Duch- 
ess, tall  and  fair,  had  the  charm  of  simple  dignity,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  grace  of  cordiality.  The  Duke,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  the  ease  and  unconventionality  of  manner 
proper  to  a  man  of  science,  and  one  who  had  broken  with 
the  prejudices  of  his  aristocratic  class. 

Much  as  Anna  Carlotta  had  been  beloved  by  her  early 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  313 

friends  in  Sweden,  she  was  now  even  more  attractive  in 
her  new-found  happiness. 

The  bliss  of  the  husband  and  wife  was  completed  by  the 
birth  of  a  son  in  June,  1892,  and  the  letters  written  by  the 
young  mother  during  the  summer  of  that  year  are  proof 
that  she  had  attained  a  height  of  human  felicity  which 
almost  made  her  tremble.  And  indeed  the  last  years  of 
her  life  were  a  luminous  progress  to  ever  intenser  joys. 
First  the  expectation  of  maternity,  then  maternity  itself, 
beautified  and  consecrated  by  the  love  which  shone  forth 
in  her  eyes  and  her  smile  —  by  the  complete  happiness  that 
caused  her  mature  nature  to  bud  and  blossom  anew,  as  if 
it  had  never  before  enjoyed  a  springtime.  With  the  cradle 
of  her  child  close  beside  her,  she  wrote  with  ever-increas- 
ing delight,  interrupting  herself  every  now  and  then  to  at- 
tend to  her  infant,  and  again  resuming  her  work  without 
the  least  impatience.  There  also  stood  one  who  awaited 
the  result  of  her  work  with  intense  sympathy,  ready  to 
hear  her  read  the  freshly-written  pages,  which  she  com- 
municated with  the  calmness  induced  by  the  certainty  of 
being  comprehended.  She  had  trembled  at  all  this  happi- 
ness, and  she  was  snatched  away  just  as  she  had  tasted  its 
full  sweetness. 

She  had  been  in  villeggiatura  on  the  island  of  Capri,  had 
returned  home  and  set  her  house  in  order  for  the  winter, 
and  was  preparing  for  a  long  period  of  peace  and  quiet, 
during  which  she  would  devote  herself  to  literature,  and 
commence  a  new  romance  which  she  was  meditating,  to  be 
entitled  "Narrow  Horizons." 

For  the  first  time  for  many  years  she  felt  at  perfect  rest 
within  and  without,  enriched  by  new  experiences,  viewing 
the  things  of  life  with  clearer  eyes  and  able,  as  she  re- 
marked to  a  friend,  "  to  write  a  great  book  on  a  broad 
basis." 

On  Sunday,  the  16th  of  October,  she  wrote  a  happy  letter 
to  her  mother  and  brother,  expressing  her  delight  in  her 
work,  her  hope  for  continued  good  health. 

The  very  next  day  her  husband  was  forced  to  insist  on 


314  S6NYA  KOVALfiVSKY 

her  giving  up  all  work ;  on  laying  down  her  pen  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence  in  order  to  nurse  herself,  for  she  had 
confessed  to  a  rapidly  increasing  indisposition.  In  vain  she 
exclaimed,  "  Oh,  no !  I  have  still  so  much  to  write ! "  She 
was  obliged  to  yield  to  her  husband's  entreaties,  and  laid 
down  her  pen  —  never  to  take  it  up  again.  That  pen  had 
just  corrected  the  last  proofs  of  "  Sonya  Kovalevsky." 

Anna  Carlotta  had  been  seized  with  acute  peritonitis, 
and,  in  spite  of  all  efforts  on  the  part  of  physicians,  and  the 
most  tender  nursing,  succumbed  to  the  terrible  malady  five 
days  later,  on  the  21st  of  October,  1893,  at  the  age  of  only 
forty-one  years. 

Anna  Carlotta  Leffler,  Duchess  of  Cajanello,  was  more 
than  a  distinguished  writer.  She  was  a  woman  void  of 
vanity  and  pretense,  utterly  sincere  ;  strong,  but  not  vio- 
lent ;  possessed  of  great  moral  courage ;  of  a  calm,  cheerful, 
sanguine  disposition  ;  of  perfect  sanity  of  mind  and  of  body ; 
regarding  the  problems  of  human  life  in  such  a  simple 
manner  as  excited  the  admiration  of  her  friends.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  hysterics  and  vagaries  of  the  "  new  woman," 
and,  more  than  all  else,  she  possessed  a  thoroughly  kind 
heart,  and  was  so  sweet  and  loving  that  those  who  knew 
her  well  forgot  the  genius  in  the  perfect  woman.  Her  ideal 
of  happiness  in  this  world  had  been  realized.  She  had  ar- 
rived at  the  summit  of  her  desires, — husband,  child,  a  happy 
home,  a  true  sphere  of  work, —  and  ceased  to  be. 


APPENDICES 


APPENDIX  A 

The  date  of  Madame  Koval6vsky's  birth  is  differently  given 
"by  different  persons  as  1850,  1851,  1853.  Her  intimate  friend 
Julia  V.  Lermontoff,  who  is  frequently  mentioned  in  these 
pages,  fixes  it  in  1853.  Her  tutor,  F.  F.  Malevitch,  on  the  con- 
trary, speaks  of  beginning  to  teach  her  in  1858,  "when  she  was 
eight  years  old."  The  marriage  in  1868  would  seem  to  confirm 
M.  Malevitch's  date.— I.  F.  H. 


APPENDIX  B 

Madame  KovaleVsky's  "Recollections  of  Childhood"  were 
published  in  Swedish  under  the  title  of  "The  Eaevsky  Sisters." 
—I.  F.  H. 

APPENDIX  C 

She  was  in  Odessa  for  the  purpose  of  reading  a  paper  before 
the  Congress  of  Naturalists. — I.  F.  H. 

APPENDIX  D 
By  Tegne'r.— I.  F.  H. 

APPENDIX   E 

I  think  the  Duchess  of  Cajanello  is  mistaken  on  this  point. 
Marriage  with  a  gipsy  would  not  entail  the  loss  of  title.  The 
omission  of  this  statement  from  the  Russian  translation  of  the 
duchess's  biography  confirms  me  in  my  view. — I.  F.  H. 

315 


316  APPENDICES 

APPENDIX  F 
Aides-de-camp. — I.  F.  H. 

APPENDIX  G 

While  yet  a  mere  child,  but  already  an  acute  observer,  she 
had  witnessed  the  great  crisis  of  the  liberation  of  the  Russian 
serfs.  In  her  romance,  "The  Vorontzoff  Family,"  she  tells  the 
impression  produced  on  the  noble  proprietors  by  this  crisis. 
Tlie  daughter  of  one  of  these  proprietors  becomes  a  nihilist, 
and  is  taken  a  prisoner  to  Siberia.  The  author  read  this  book 
aloud  to  a  scientific  circle  in  Stockholm  shortly  before  her 
death,  and  produced  great  enthusiasm.  Fortunately  the  manu- 
script was  found  complete,  and  will  be  published. 

Of  the  other  romance,  the  "  Vse  Victis,"  only  one  chapter  was 
published.  Its  fundamental  conception  reveals,  more  than  any 
other  work,  its  author's  nature. 

APPENDIX  H 

Madame  KovaleVsky  very  accurately  described  this  fluttering 
to  and  fro  between  mathematics  and  literature  in  a  letter  to 
Madame  Schabelskoy.  "I  understand,"  she  says,  "your  sur- 
prise at  my  being  able  to  busy  myself  simultaneously  with  lit- 
erature and  mathematics.  Many  who  have  never  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  knowing  any  more  about  mathematics  confound  it  with 
arithmetic,  and  consider  it  an  arid  science.  In  reality,  however, 
it  is  a  science  which  requires  a  great  amount  of  imagination, 
and  one  of  the  leading  mathematicians  of  our  century  states  the 
case  quite  correctly  when  he  says  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  a 
mathematician  without  being  a  poet  in  soul.  Only,  of  course, 
in  order  to  comprehend  the  accuracy  of  this  definition,  one 
must  renounce  the  ancient  prejudice  that  a  poet  must  invent 
something  which  does  not  exist,  that  imagination  and  invention 
are  identical.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  poet  has  only  to  perceive 
that  which  others  do  not  perceive,  to  look  deeper  than  others 
look.  And  the  mathematician  must  do  the  same  thing.  As  for 
myself,  all  my  life  I  have  been  unable  to  decide  for  which  I  had 
the  greater  inclination,  mathematics  or  literature.  As  soon  as 
my  brain  grows  wearied  of  purely  abstract  speculations  it  im- 


APPENDICES  317 

mediately  begins  to  incline  to  observations  on  life,  to  narrative ; 
and,  vice  versa,  everything  in  life  begins  to  appear  insignificant 
and  uninteresting,  and  only  the  eternal,  immutable  laws  of 
science  attract  me.  It  is  very  possible  that  I  might  have  ac- 
complished more  in  either  of  these  lines  if  I  had  devoted  myself 
exclusively  to  it ;  nevertheless  I  cannot  give  up  either  of  them 
completely."  (From  Ellen  Key's  "  Biography  of  the  Duchess  di 
Cajanello.")— I.  F.  H. 

APPENDIX  I 

Her  work  was  entitled  "On  a  Particular  Case  of  the  Problem 
of  Rotation  of  a  Heavy  Body  around  a  Fixed  Point."  The  prize 
was  doubled  (to  five  thousand  francs),  on  account  of  the  "  quite 
extraordinary  service  rendered  to  mathematical  physics  by  this 
work,"  which  the  Academy  of  Sciences  pronounced  "a  remark- 
able work."  The  competing  dissertations  were  signed  by  mot- 
toes, not  with  names,  and  the  jury  of  the  Academy  made  the 
award  in  utter  ignorance  that  the  winner  was  a  woman.  Her 
dissertation  was  printed,  by  order  of  the  Academy,  in  the 
"Me"moires  des  Savants  Etrangers."  In  the  following  year 
Madame  KovaleVsky  received  a  prize  of  fifteen  hundred  kroner 
from  the  Stockholm  Academy,  for  two  works  connected  with  the 
foregoing.  ("S.  V.  KovaleVsky,"  published  by  the  Mathemati- 
cal Society  of  the  University  of  Moscow.) — I.  F.  H. 


APPENDIX  J 

Madame  Kovale"vsky  calls  herself  "Tanya  Raevsky"in  the 
Swedish  translation  of  her  "Recollections  of  Childhood." — 
I.  F.  H. 

APPENDIX  K 

According  to  what  Mittag  Leffler  says,  S6nya  had  not  thought 
of  abandoning  scientific  study  entirely.  In  the  last  conversation 
she  had  with  him,  the  day  before  she  was  taken  with  her  short 
and  fatal  illness,  she  told  him  of  a  plan  for  a  new  mathematical 
work,  which  she  believed  would  be  the  most  important  she  had 
ever  written.  According  to  her  usual  manner,  considering  her- 
self gifted  with  second  siglit  in  all  intellectual  things,  she  said 
she  had  divined  the  solution  of  certain  profound  enigmas,  which 
would  open  out  a  new  path  in  the  field  of  thought. 


318  APPENDICES 


APPENDIX  L 

Russian  Sunday-schools  are  far  from  being  identical  in  char- 
acter with  American  Sunday-schools.  They  are  schools  where 
working-men  who  are  occupied  during  the  week  can  obtain  in- 
struction in  the  elementary  and  other  branches  of  secular  learn- 
ing. Religion  is  taught  in  all  schools  on  week-days — I.  F.  H. 

APPENDIX   M 

The  newspapers  mentioned  her  under  the  name  by  which  she 
was  known  in  Sweden — "  our  Professor  S6nya." — I.  F.  H. 

APPENDIX  N 

In  the  commemoration  made  by  Mittag  Leffler,  as  Rector  of 
the  Stockholm  University,  after  the  death  of  S6nya,  he  thus 
speaks  of  her  influence  on  her  students : 

"  She  came  to  us  from  the  center  of  modern  science  full  of 
faith  and  enthusiasm  for  the  ideas  of  her  great  master  of  Berlin, 
the  venerable  old  man  who  has  outlived  his  favorite  pupil.  Her 
works,  which  all  belong  to  the  same  order  of  ideas,  have  shown, 
by  new  discoveries,  the  power  of  Weierstrass's  system.  We 
know  with  what  inspiriting  zeal  she  explained  these  ideas,  what 
importance  she  attributed  to  them  in  resolving  the  most  difficult 
problems.  And  how  willingly  she  gave  the  riches  of  her  know- 
ledge, the  genial  divinations  of  her  mind,  to  each  student  who 
had  the  will  and  the  power  to  receive  them !  Her  simple  per- 
sonality, free  from  any  trace  of  scientific  affectation,  and  the 
eagerness  with  which  she  sought  to  comprehend  the  individual- 
ity of  every  man,  induced  all  her  students  to  confide  to  her,  al- 
most at  the  first  meeting,  their  own  most  hidden  thoughts  and 
sentiments ;  their  scientific  doubts  and  hopes ;  their  hesitancies 
before  new  systems ;  their  sorrows,  disillusions,  and  dreams  of 
happiness.  With  such  qualities  she  entered  on  her  teaching, 
and  on  such  bases  she  founded  her  relations  to  her  scholars." 


21311 


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